Branded On My Heart
by GoGirl212
Summary: It doesn't matter who hurts you or breaks you down, what matters is can you be put back together? This is a story of torture, revenge, love and brotherhood. COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _This is my first long-form fic! I plan to post chapters weekly. There is no way this would have seen the light of day without the encouragement, support and beta-reading skills of the lovely Issai. I don't own any characters, but the mistakes are all mine. Thank you for being such a welcoming and generous community - I would not have been brave enough to write this without such a supportive group of people._

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D'Artagnan arched his back and stretched in the sunshine beaming down in the courtyard. The ground was still wet and muddy from two solid days of rain, but the air had an inviting warmth that promised a glorious early spring day. The Musketeer garrison was just coming to life in the rosy morning light. Two stable boys were already about their business, and Serge had something on the fire that made D'Artagnan's mouth water and his stomach rumble expectantly. However, after two days of idle, indoor activity D'Artagnan needed to move more than he needed to eat. There is only so much time one can spend cleaning firearms and sharpening blades without going mad. _This is probably the real root of Athos's foul moods,_ D'Artagnan snickered to himself.

He moved to the center of the empty courtyard, drawing his rapier and main gauche and started the very same practice drills his father had taught him years ago. It was always the same with D'Artagnan, unless some duty prevented it, he preferred to start his day with sword drills the way he had every morning with his father since his 11th birthday. He had been given his first sword that day and stepped into the barnyard to learn his first combination of steps, thrusts and parries that were the foundations of swordplay. He was awkward and gawky, learning the patterns for both feet and hands, trying to hold up the long steel blade while staggering with herky-jerky steps through the chickens at their feed. He had been tempted more than once to give up, but watching his father's practiced grace inspired him. And this was something they could do together that wasn't work, or church, or the business of just living.

D'Artagnan's simple drill gave way to more complex patterns, and a sheen of sweat appeared on his face. He felt his muscles, resistant at first, stretching and uncoiling as he swung his rapier in broader circles, and moved his main gauche in a staccato counterpoint. His feet marked a spiralling pattern in the mud and he shifted his focus enough to be aware that his footing was hampered. The drill began to look more like a dance, coordinated motions of arms, feet, and torso spinning through space. The morning sun flashed off his blades, his heavy breathing providing a steady rhythm. Thoughts of his father and his past fell from his mind as his eyes followed the focal point of his rapier. He discarded the stable boys pausing in awe to watch, and Serge, emerging from the kitchen with porridge for both of them, settling at the table he often shared with his comrades. His only concern was the next place to put his blade, his shoulder, his foot, his hand.

While he couldn't say that he was consciously counting the number of rotations he had completed, some corner of his mind always kept track, and after the eighth time through, he knew it was time to stop. He finished the last form with a flourish, crossed rapier and dagger rasping against each other in salute to an imaginary foe before dropping his arms to his side. He was breathing heavily, his shirt was damp with sweat, but his face was relaxed and smiling. D'Artagnan stripped his gloves from his hands as he walked slowly to the long table and his waiting breakfast. He deposited sword, gloves and dagger on the table next to his brown leather doublet and smiled at Serge, his eyes dancing still. Serge met his gaze, eyes narrowing.

"Spoons," Serge grunted, pushing himself up from the table and retreating back into the garrison common room. D'Artagnan shook his head and rolled his eyes. There was never any telling with that man.

D'Artagnan sat on the bench with a heavy sigh, his back to the table. By now his companions would typically be gathering for breakfast before muster. But Athos and Aramis were away on an errand for the King and not expected back until mid-morning and Porthos . . . D'Artagnan let a knowing smirk play across his lips. While he had not fully taken his young friend into his confidence, Porthos had let it be known to him that there was a lady in his life. He had been tight-lipped about the details, but more and more evenings had seen him absent from the card and dice games he was well known to frequent, and late to muster more mornings than not. D'Artagnan had suspected a lovely widow they had met while on guard at one of the King's garden fetes, but tease him as he would, Porthos had not seen fit to share her name.

D'Artagnan certainly didn't begrudge his friend the comfort of a woman's embrace, but he was dismayed that for the third day in a row, there would be no sparring after muster. Porthos would hardly be in the mood for it and the other musketeers in the garrison tended to avoid D'Artagnan's rigorous training style. He hoped he might be sent on some assignment by Treville, but D'Artagnan knew that as a new recruit, unless he was dispatched on a mission with his companions, he was not likely to be given any solo duty other than back in the armoury for another tedious afternoon. He sighed again. The day that had looked so promising before was losing its appeal despite the sunshine.

D'Artagnan's attention was pulled from his brooding by a shout. He looked up to see a young girl running through the arched entrance to the garrison, flushed and frantic, crying out for help. D'Artagnan was on his feet and moving toward her in the same swift motion. He took three long strides to intercept her in the middle of the deserted courtyard where he had just been practicing. He grabbed her by the shoulders and steadied her on her feet. He looked past her, but it didn't look as if she was running from pursuit. So what then?

"Hey, hey," he said, gripping her tightly and trying to get her to focus on this face, "steady there. Look at me. Take a breath." The girl finally focused on him and nodded, taking in deep gulps of air while her eyes remained locked on D'Artagnan. D'Artagnan smiled at her encouragingly, taking in the details of her face and clothes. She had to be about 10 years old, scrawny and underfed, wearing ragged clothing that hung too loosely on her small frame. Damp blond hair reached her shoulders while sharp blue eyes fiercely met his brown ones with intelligence and urgency. Her breathing grew more steady and he gave her shoulder what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze.

"There now," D'Artagnan said gently, "tell me."

"I need help, _we_ need help, I mean," she said getting flustered. She reached up and grabbed his shirt, tugging urgently," You have to come with me to the Court! I'm supposed to bring a Musketeer!" she pleaded.

"The Court?" D'Artagnan exclaimed, "What's happened at the palace? Is it the King?" he pried her hands from his shirt and strode to the table to gather his weapons.

"No, no!" the girl sobbed, "not the palace, the Court! Where I live! I have to bring a Musketeer! You have to hurry!"

D'Artagnan paused and took her in again, his leather doublet forgotten in his hand. The girl was no palace servant, even a scullery girl would be better fed and clothed than this. "The Court of Miracles?" D'Artagnan asked. She nodded her head vigorously. "Why do you need a Muske – " D'Artagnan cut himself off abruptly. _Porthos. Porthos was there and had sent for a Musketeer._ It was the only explanation that came to D'Artagnan's mind as to why anyone from the district of beggars and thieves would want a Musketeer in their midst. D'Artagnan's heart started racing and he felt his stomach twist. Something must be horribly wrong that Porthos was back in that place again. He spared a glance to the empty courtyard. There was no other soul in sight and while he technically might not be a Musketeer yet, he was not about to leave his comrade without aid.

It didn't dawn on D'Artagnan to ask for permission, to leave a note, or even to shout up to Treville's office. He fleetingly considered that it might be some kind of trap to lure him from the safety of the garrison, but dismissed that as unimportant to the matter at hand. If Porthos was in need, he had no time to waste drumming up reinforcements and if the entire thing was a ruse, then they would have to face one angry musketeer . . . well, _almost_ musketeer. The only thing he had the presence of mind to do was leave his doublet on the table and instead, grab Serge's discarded cloak where he had left it by the cooling porridge. He had limited experience with the Court of Miracles, but he remembered quite well how unwelcome the Musketeers had been in their uniforms and fine leathers. He pulled the ragged cloak across his shoulders and raised the hood, bathing his face in its shadow.

"Now, then," he said, taking the girl by the hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze, "show me." Clutching tightly to D'Artagnan's hand, the girl pulled him through the archway and into the still sleepy maze of Paris streets.

D'Artagnan kept his hood pulled low over his face while the girl led him through the twists and turns of the back alleyways of Paris. They slipped through narrow and rough streets that he didn't know had existed – a Paris hidden from sight to all but the lowest and most desperate of its citizens. A nobleman making a wrong turn at night could have his purse stolen and his throat cut mere yards away from the Opera House or even the Court House with no one the wiser. To the rich Parisians, these streets were invisible but this child was wending her way through them with the surety of a schoolgirl on her way to church. D'Artagnan was grateful for his guide and for the early morning hour as the streets had been more or less deserted, but now as the sun was climbing, Paris was waking, and he and the child were starting to draw some attention as they passed. D'Artagnan's free hand slipped beneath his borrowed cloak and rested on the butt of his pistol.

His guide must have made a mistake, because when they made the next turn the alleyway dead ended at a long stone wall. D'Artagnan paused but the girl tugged at him.

"This way," she said, pulling at his hand, "please, hurry!" Frustrated, she dropped his hand and ran on ahead.

"Hey," he called softly at her retreating form, "wait!" and he trotted after her.

The wall turned out to be the charred remains of a burned out tavern, the dead end a tiny courtyard that would have been a place to tie horses. Black scorches showed where fire had licked through the upper windows and the vines and trees growing from the crumbling façade showed it had been long ago. The main entrance to the old inn was a crumbled ruin, but to the far left, a small iron door stood rusted and partly open. He followed the girl as she ran inside.

D'Artagnan had expected that they would be stepping into the burned out shell of the inn, but instead found himself in another street, ramshackle stalls and rickety wooden walkways leading to upper levels. The remains of the Inn had long been scooped out and all that was left was the wall and its door, an opening into another world.

The girl was waiting for him at the other side of the door and he caught her by the shoulder before she could run off again. "Where are we?" he asked her.

"Pony-side," she said as if he should have known that. He stared at her quizzically and the girl rolled her eyes but explained as one might a small child, "This door is to Pony-side. It's the market. In the Court."

"Why Pony-side?" D'Artagnan asked. The girl rolled her eyes again.

"The Inn," she said, exasperated and gesturing at the ruined wall behind her, "It was called something after a pony. Can we please go, we are almost there."

"Where exactly are you taking me?" D'Artagnan finally thought to ask for the first time in their journey. He silently chided himself. Athos was right, he had to use his head more.

"To the King's Hall, we are almost there," the girl whispered, "and we have to hurry. She said to be quick," the girl urged.

"She?" D'Artagnan asked. He had assumed it would have been Porthos who sent specifically for a Musketeer. He felt the knot tighten in his stomach again. "Please, what has happened?" he asked softly, his intense eyes belying the forced calm in his voice. He could see the girl was getting upset with his refusal to keep moving.

"It's terrible," she whispered, her eyes filling with tears, "She said to find a Musketeer. She said to hurry. You have to come!" she let out a small sob, "Please you have to come!" and she started to pull at his hand again.

D'Artagnan's mind was screaming at him that following her blindly into the Court of Miracles with no notion of why he was even going was foolhardy, but his fear that something had happened to his friend was stronger. He allowed himself be led again, paying careful attention to the route they took in case he had to get out on his own. Focusing on that kept his worry about Porthos at bay – at least temporarily. It only then dawned on him that no one knew where he was. He cursed himself again for the impetuous nature that always seemed to land him in trouble.

The girl had been truthful that their destination was close. At the end of the market street, they turned to the right, up a narrow track between leaning buildings and then to the left to an open courtyard filled with tents and temporary structures. D'Artagnan marvelled that people could live in these conditions. The courtyard belonged to a large building with a crumbling colonnade and peeling façade. The broken lettering said it had been a theatre once. The girl led him to the side of the large building and slipped in through a side door. A back entrance to the King's Hall.

He stepped through the door, out of the Paris sunshine and into the murky coolness of the old building. Before his eyes could fully adjust to the dim light, figures emerged from the shadows. Half a dozen men at least he counted as he heard the clicks of their cocking pistols. D'Artagnan moved the girl behind him with a gentle gesture and then slowly raised his hands to show they were empty. He took a long inhale and wondered how he was going to get himself out of this one.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Very much appreciate the encouraging comments - special thank youto guest reviewers thati can't reply to, the kind words keep me writing. Many thanks, many time over to Issai for her insightful beta-reading skills. Despite her good work, the remaining errors are all mine._

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"Hold!" a woman's voice called out from behind the men, "He is here at my request," she continued and pushed through the circle of men. "Lower your weapons," she snapped, pushing away the pistols now pointed at both of them. D'Artagnan let out an audible exhale and lowered his hands. He regarded the woman, her long blond hair, the worn brocade skirt and a leather doublet held with a chain belt. It was clear she was the lady of the house, although no one outside of the Court of Miracles would ever call her that. D'Artagnan dipped his head in greeting and thanks.

"I am Flea," she said to him, eying him up and down. She pushed the hood back from D'Artagnan's face. "You look a little young for a Musketeer. Where is Athos?" she asked curtly.

Flea. D'Artagnan remembered her now. She was beloved of Porthos and he had only just been reunited with her a few months ago. Was she now the reigning Queen of the Court of Miracles?

"Athos is away on a mission," D'Artagnan answered, "and the girl said only she needed a Musketeer, and I am here," he continued with his trademark cocky confidence, "What has happened?"

Flea's face creased in worry and tears filled her eyes. "Come with me please," she said, a note of desperation in her voice, "Its Porthos –" she cut herself off from saying more. D'Artagnan nodded and followed her. _Too late to worry now about following strangers into the dark_ he told himself. She led him swiftly down the corridor and up a flight of stone steps, her skirts rustling in the otherwise quiet building. She pulled open a heavy wooden door and stepped aside to let D'Artagnan enter. It was a scene of carnage.

The large room had been adorned as a bed chamber, soft silks hanging from the rafters, a large mattress with dozens of brocade cushions, and lamps slung from the ceiling to create a soft and mellow light that illuminated at least half a dozen men who had found their final rest here. The floor was slick with blood. It stained the bedclothes and spattered and streaked across the soft fabrics. Table and chairs were overturned and broken glass crunched underfoot as D'Artagnan made his way into the room. His heart pounded in his chest as he quickly scanned the faces of the dead. "Porthos!" he shouted in ragged desperation, feeling his breath catch in his throat.

"He's not here," the woman behind him let out a sob and she crumpled to her knees in the doorway. "They took him," Flea whispered, "he fought them but there were just too many," she continued through tears. "I think he's dead," and she hung her head in despair.

 _No, no, no, no!_ D'Artagnan's mind shouted as his heart raced. _Think! Why carry off a dead man? He's alive. You have to believe he is alive._

D'Artagnan took two deep steadying breaths and ran his hands through his hair, fighting the tears he felt building in his eyes. He desperately wished Athos was here. His friend, his mentor, his leader. D'Artagnan realized how much he had come to rely on the man's calm and steady presence in these moments, his advice to think not just act. D'Artagnan wanted to rush out and save his friend, to take revenge on the men who had hurt him, to battle through an enemy and leash out death as punishment for the despair they had caused. But there was no action to take against a room full of dead men. D'Artagnan felt the rush of rage and fear fall away and something cold and hard and sharp replace it. He was going to find Porthos, _alive,_ and then he was going to mangle the souls of all who had harmed him.

He looked back at Flea, still sobbing softly on the floor. He saw the blood on her dress now and in her hair. Her face was bruised and there was an angry cut across her forearm. She must have been in the room during the fight. He moved to her and knelt, taking her shaking form in his arms. He soothed her with quiet words, hoping to calm her down enough so he could ask what had happened. Holding her quieted his own raw emotions, let the coldness in his heart grow. His mind was growing sharp and clear as he locked down his own feelings lest they distract him. Had he seen his own eyes, he would have recognized the signs of the same icy stare Athos commanded.

Flea finally seemed to notice D'Artagnan's presence and he felt her hand take a grip on the folds of his shirt. Looking over her shoulder, he saw the girl, his guide, waiting quietly in the hallway.

"What's your name," he said quietly, as her wide, saucer eyes registered the horror of the bloody room behind him.

"Dominique," she said softly.

"Well, Dominique," D'Artagnan answered gently, "is there another room here we can go? Somewhere safe and quiet?" She nodded and pointed at a doorway across the hall. D'Artagnan spared her a grateful smile, and stood, helping Flea to her feet. He put his arm around her and maneuvered her across the hall to another chamber, similarly adorned with silks and cushions but also with chairs and tables. A meeting room of some kind perhaps. He settled Flea on a bench beside the table and sat next to her, a comforting arm still around her shoulders. She was not crying anymore, but he could feel her trembling beneath his arm. He gently stroked her shoulder trying to reassure her that she was alright.

"Dominque, can you find me some water, a cloth and some wine," he asked. The girl nodded and ran off. "Flea, I need your help," D'Artagnan murmured, dipping his head to try to see her face, "I need you to tell me what happened," he encouraged.

She drew in a shuddering breath and raised her head to meet D'Artagnan's gaze. "It was so fast," she sniffed, dragging her hand across her eyes to clear the tears, "I had left to go downstairs, find us some breakfast, and I heard a crash. I ran back and there were, I don't know," she paused, squinting her eyes to bring back the memory, "a dozen men at least. Porthos was standing in the middle of the room, he had his sword and dagger and fought so hard," her voice caught as she choked back a sob, but D'Artagnan tightened his grip around her shoulder and she went on, "But there were just too many. They kept coming and coming. I hit one over the head with a stool and stabbed another with my dagger. Someone slammed me into the wall then. He pulled a dagger and I blocked it, but then he punched me in the face," she shook her head, obviously trying to remember, "I don't remember too much after, it's fuzzy. But I saw him fall," she looked back at D'Artagnan, her eyes full of despair and sorrow, "He took a blow to the head and fell like a stone. He was so still. They dragged him off, but he's dead," and Flea leaned her head into D'Artagnan's shoulder and cried.

"Hush, sssssh," D'Artagnan whispered, trying to calm Flea down so she could continue talking. Dominque appeared with the things he had asked for and she set them down on the table beside D'Artagnan. He took up the cloth, wet it and raised up Flea's face, gently washing the blood from her cheeks. "Listen, listen to me," he soothed, "I don't think he is dead. I don't." She seemed to quiet at this and met his gaze as if searching for a sign that he was telling her the truth and not just trying to comfort her. "Do you remember hearing any gunshots?" D'Artagnnan asked. She shook her head _no._ "Alright then," he said, a cold smile playing at his lips. "If whoever attacked him wanted him dead, they would have come in shooting first. You understand?" he asked emphatically, "This was a kidnapping, not a murder."

"But why," she breathed, "What do they want with him?"

"I was hoping you could tell me that," D'Artagnan sighed. He put down the cloth and poured Flea some wine. He pressed the cup into her hands and urged her to take it, then stood and paced the length of the room. _Why indeed?_ D'Artagnan thought, running his hand through his hair. He turned back to Flea, more settled and lucid now. "What can you tell me about these men?" he asked, returning to the table. He sat beside her and took her hand, turning over her wrist to look at the angry wound slashed across her arm. It wasn't too deep, but D'Artagnan took up the cloth and began to clean it. Flea's face screwed up in pain under his touch, and he wondered if he had done something wrong. He was so clumsy in this compared to Aramis. Some part of him wanted to race back to the garrison and bring his friends to his aid, but he knew it was just wasting precious time and they might not even be there. He needed to discover all he could and return to the garrison with something they could use to find Porthos. "Please Flea, think about these men," he urged her again, trying to be more gentle with her wound, "what do you know of them?"

"Nothing," she blurted out, "I have never seen them. They are not from the Court. We may be beggars and thieves, but we live here, we know each other," she said, her eyes flashing.

"If they are not from here," D'Artagnan asked, "then how did they know to find Porthos? How did they know where he was?" D'Artagnan remembered the maze of streets and alleys, the secret door into Pony-side, the journey he would have been lost on were it not for the assistance of Dominque.

"It's impossible to have found him without help," Flea said fiercely, confirming D'Artagnan's suspicions.

"There are half a dozen dead in that room, and half a dozen more who you think were still fighting," D'Artagnan said, "so this took some planning. Who knew Porthos would be here?"

"Several people knew he was keeping company with me again," Flea responded. A smile hinted at her lips. "He came around to check on me a few weeks ago, and he just stayed. He returned several times and lately, he has spent most nights here with me," her features softening as she shared her memories.

"Did anyone have any objections to that:" D'Artagnan asked, "you are the Lady of this place now, I think," D'Artagnan queried and Flea nodded in agreement, "so was there some other rival for your affection that might have wanted Porthos out of the way?"

"There are always rivals and factions here," Flea answered, "but they would just have killed him. And probably me too. They paid me no mind these men, their focus was singular and brutal," she paused a moment, and then continued, "And someone from here would have done it himself. No one here has coin to hire a dozen mercenaries. They would want everyone to know who was behind the attack, who was wielding power in the Court."

Flea's reasoning seemed sound and D'Artagnan could appreciate why Porthos was so captivated by this woman. She had an intelligence to match her beauty and she had flourished here in this most dismal of places. D'Artagnan thought more on Porthos's frequent evening absences. He had been wrong about the object of his affection, but not about his business. Still Porthos had kept things close to his chest, none but his dearest friends knew what he had been about and even then, not specifically. It was not likely the information about Porthos's possible whereabouts came from the garrison. Not that he suspected any of the regiment, but there was not enough information for even an unwitting comment to have given away Porthos's location.

"Flea, I think someone must have been watching him," D'Artagnan shared his suspicions, "Looking for an opportunity to take him. Someone from outside of the Court, but who needed help from inside to get to him." Flea nodded, as she considered this. "Did Porthos say anything at all to lead you to believe he might be concerned about something?"

"No, no," she shook her head ruefully, "nothing we talked of had any hint of worry, other than for me and my wellbeing."

"Alright," D'Artagnan said, "then who from the Court might be the traitor who escorted an armed party into the middle of your sanctuary?"

"I don't know," she replied through tight lips, her distress growing again.

"Never mind, don't worry. We will figure this out," D'Artagnan said in comfort, taking the woman's hands in his own. "You need a bandage on that cut," he said, indicating the wound he had cleaned for her. "Dominique, can you help her?" D'Artagnan asked of the girl. She smiled at him and nodded. "Good. I'll be right back."

"Where are you going," Flea felt a quaver in her voice as the young man dropped her hands and stood.

"I have to check those men for some sign of who they are and who they are working for," D'Artagnan saw her eyes widen with fear. "Stay here," he said, "I'll be quick." He moved toward the door, pausing to run his hand through the hair of the child, "You will help your mistress, yes?" he smiled at her and she nodded again, obviously pleased at the attention from the young Musketeer.

He walked past the girl and back across the hall. D'Artagnan was ready this time for the bloody scene before him and felt his soldier's resolve strengthen the steel in his heart. This was not the time for emotional outbursts or squeamishness. He had work to do.

He made his way meticulously around the room, moving from body to body with a steady determination. He peered into each face, looking for anyone he recognized, and emptied their pockets of any belongings. He searched past gaping wounds that leaked blood and intestine and torn faces with missing eyes. This fight had been fierce and Porthos had shown no quarter. One man was pinned against the wall, Porthos' dagger through his throat impaling him to the wall. D'Artagnan pulled the blade free and the man slumped to the floor. He wiped the blade clean on the dead man's jerkin and moved to the next body. He found purses full of coin, most likely the payment for what they had done here, and a wallet with a carefully folded parchment. He didn't stop to study it, just moved on to search the next body. He came upon Porthos's sword buried to the hilt in a man's chest. D'Artagnan had to brace his foot against the corpse to pull it out. _This was how Porthos was disarmed_ , D'Artagnan thought, _he could not get the sword back out of the body he had used such force._ Porthos's main gauche was buried in another's thigh. His pistols were nowhere to be seen. He thought that unusual until he found them beneath an overturned table, one of them in pieces. He had been cleaning them. Porthos's leather doublet was also under the table, and his boots were still by side of the bed. D'Artagnan had to smile then. His friend had killed 8 men in his bare feet and braes. There must have been at least another half dozen left alive though to have subdued him and then carried him from this place. Now that was the next question. How did they get in, and how did they manage to get Porthos out?


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Thank you to everyone who has left reviews or taken the time to follow/fav this story. With all of the glitches with reviews, I hope was eventually able to answer everyone. It's very inspiring when people comment and it makes me excited instead of terrified to post the next chapter :) Many thanks as always to Issai for beta-reading and doing her best to save me from the errors of my ways._

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Athos and Aramis were tired and road weary as their horses made their way through the archway and into the garrison courtyard. Both had their hats pulled low against the mid-morning sun, each lost in their own thoughts as they came to a stop just inside the gateway. They started stripping their horses of weaponry, pulling pistols and muskets from saddle holsters and ammunition and powder from pouches and saddle bags. Two stable boys came over to take the reigns as Athos pulled the courier pouch from behind his mount. The bells at _St. Julien-le-Pauvre_ were ringing ten o'clock as they swung down off their mounts.

"Well the Captain shouldn't have anything to complain about for once," Aramis smirked as he opened his canteen, "We're back on time, dispatches in hand, and no one with cuts, bruises or sutures that they didn't have to begin with," he gave a sideways smile to Athos, who only arched an eyebrow in response. "Father in Heaven, I am parched," Aramis said and raised his canteen to his lips. His shoulders dropped and he turned it completely upside down. Empty. This got a small smile from Athos, who shook his head in mock derision. "Ah fine then," Aramis said returning the canteen to his saddle and clapping a hand to Athos's shoulder, "I guess we will just have to go inside and drink wine," he said warmly. Aramis slung his long musket behind his neck and the two started off companionably toward the garrison common room. They were stopped with a shout from above.

"You two!"

They looked up to see Captain Treville, leaning over the balcony railing outside his office.

"Get up here," he barked at them, "Now!" and he stalked back into his office slamming the door.

"You were saying?" Athos said dryly, although there was a gleam of a smile in his eyes. Aramis let out an audible sigh, pulling his hat from his head and running his hand through his hair.

"Let's get this over with," Athos said and led the way up the stairs.

 _At least we are out of the sun_ , Aramis thought as he stood in front of the Captain's desk, waiting for Treville to give them his attention. The Captain was leaning on the desk pouring over a pile of papers, maps, and letters. _The tedious things that Captains must do_ Aramis considered, smiling and letting out a soft snort. Athos's eyes flicked to him in warning as the Captain's head shot up.

"Something amusing, Aramis?" the Captain asked.

Aramis cleared his throat. "Um no, no sir" he answered sheepishly, lowering his gaze and running his hand over the back of his neck.

Captain Treville stared at him a moment, then shook his head with a small grunt of derision. His gaze shifted to Athos. "The dispatches?" he said, holding out his hand.

"Here," Athos said, handing him the pouch, "All accounted for, no incidents on the way," he added.

The Captain grumbled something unintelligible in response, as he glanced through the contents of the pouch. Aramis rolled back on his heels and gave Athos a look, lifting his chin toward the Captain. Athos knew full well what the marksman meant.

"Sir," Athos began cautiously, "if there's nothing else –" he was cut off mid-sentence by a growl from Treville.

"Oh, I'm not through," he spat. "Richelieu has convinced the King to finance 15 more men to his Red Guard. I'm swimming in dispatches and busy work with not enough men to go around and your farm boy recruit doesn't bother to show up to muster today." The Captain tossed the messenger pouch down on his desk, sending papers wafting to the floor. Athos and Aramis straightened up, Treville had their full attention now. They exchanged a glance – this was not like D'Artagnan. "But I suppose I should expect that, since Porthos apparently considers muster optional too," he glared at them both.

"Porthos wasn't there either?" Athos asked, raising his head to meet Treville's fiery glare with a cold, steel blue gaze of his own, "Don't you find that worrisome," he said stonily.

"I would find it _worrisome_ ," Treville answered, tossing back Athos's words, "had Porthos not been late to muster at least half a dozen times this fortnight already. It was just a matter of time until he missed it completely. And apparently, he's setting quite an example for D'Artagnan." Treville picked up his sword belt, draped over the chair, and started buckling it around his hips, "I don't have time for this," he muttered.

"Where are you going?" Athos asked tersely.

"Where am I going?" Treville crossed around the desk and stood before Athos. "I'm going to the palace, to deliver these to the King," he said, picking the dispatch pouch and waving it under Athos's nose, "I'm doing _your_ job today. You," he continued tersely, with a look that took in both men, "are going to find my missing Musketeers. I want them back here by the time I return and there better be a damned good explanation." Treville shoved his hat on his head, slung the bag over his shoulder and stalked out of the room. They could hear him already calling for his horse as he made his way down the stairs.

"He's worried," Athos said.

"I'm worried," Aramis countered, "This is not like them."

"The Captain is right about Porthos," Athos continued, "He's been late. Distracted."

"But to not show up at all?" Aramis took off his hat and placed it over his heart, "I'm sorry Athos, but that is more like you than him."

Athos glared at him but knew also he could not deny it, "But then where is D'Artagnan?" Athos asked, clearly changing the subject. "He's certainly not spending a lazy morning with Madame Bonacieux."

"No, that he is not," Aramis agreed.

"We won't find them in here," Athos said, "Let's go."

Aramis flipped his hat back to the top of his head and followed Athos out the door and down the stairs to the courtyard. Athos stalked off toward the archway, but something on the table caught Aramis's eye.

"Athos," Aramis waved his friend back toward him. "D'Artagnan was here at some point today," he said and gestured to the brown doublet still laying on the table. Athos picked it up and shook it out. Yes, it was definitely the Gascon's leathers. "I wonder where he would run off to without that," Aramis said.

"No spoon either," a gruff voice grunted from behind them. They turned to see Serge, carrying a pot of something out of the common room. "No jacket, no spoon, no breakfast," he said definitively as if the two Musketeers should know what he was talking about.

Serge's nonsensical pronouncement tweaked at Athos's already tense mood. He needed information, not riddles. Athos moved to take a step toward the old man but he was stopped by a gentle hand on his chest from Aramis. "Allow me," Aramis said softly and stepped gracefully between Athos and the old cook. Athos glared at Aramis but yielded. He was right. His more patient approach would probably provide better results than Athos kicking the man across the courtyard. Athos stepped back and leaned against the staircase. He crossed his arms and lowered his chin to his chest, listening.

"Serge," Aramis said with a warm smile, "was D'Artagnan here today?" Serge grunted something that might have been yes. "Serge," Aramis tried again, this time lifting the large pot from the man's hands in order to help him with his burden. Serge rolled his eyes and gestured Aramis follow him as he shuffled slowly to the small outdoor stove. "Was D'Artagnan here? For breakfast?" Aramis pressed him.

"No, no breakfast," Serge said, bending down to stoke the small fire, "he didn't wait for the spoon."

Aramis set the pot on the stove grate and took off his hat to help fan the flames that Serge was trying to coax out of the pile of tinder. "Was he here then before breakfast? Did you see him? What was he doing?"

"Oh those circle things with the sword," Serge said shaking his head, "same thing every morning."

"Did you see him leave?" Aramis asked, "Did something happen that he ran off without his doublet?"

"No, no, no" Serge said, "I was getting the spoon. Came back, no D'Artagnan, no breakfast, no cloak."

"What cloak," Aramis asked, utterly confused.

"My cloak!" Serge squawked at him, "I only had the spoon left," he muttered. Exasperated, Aramis stood and gave a small nod of thanks. He stalked back to Athos who straightened up at his approach.

"Well, as far as I can tell," Aramis reported, "D'Artagnan was here this morning, as usual, going through his practice drills but left before breakfast, apparently without his doublet but with Serge's cloak."

Athos snorted. "None of this helps us. We have no idea where he might have gone."

"Well I have a pretty good idea where Porthos might be," Aramis said. Athos raised his eyebrow and cocked his head expectantly. "You do too, if you think about it" Aramis smiled, "You know where he has been spending his evenings again lately," Aramis said knowingly.

Athos sighed, "The Court of Miracles. That woman. Flea."

"Yes, Flea," Aramis said wistfully, "I can see why," he added.

"But to miss muster?" Athos shook his head in disapproval.

"I wouldn't judge so harshly," Aramis said gently, "He loves her. Or at least he did once. Men do many things for love."

"I know," Athos said simply, "But then they have friends who bring them to their senses." He gave Aramis a small pat on the back. "Let's go get him. Then we can figure out where D'Artagnan got himself off to."

"Athos," Aramis asked, "are you sure it is a good idea for us to just walk in there? Remember the last time?"

"I remember," Athos said, "but that was before you killed their King. I'm sure they'll welcome you with open arms now," Athos almost smiled as he teased his friend, but Aramis looked like he'd rather swallow nails than willingly walk back into the Court of Miracles.

* * *

 _He was on a boat. It softly swayed on the waves, rocking him as his mother had when he was a child. He was shirtless but warm from sunlight, shaded by a stretch of canvas sail. He had been sleeping long but not yet long enough. His eyes were too heavy to force open but there was no reason to try. Rocking on a boat, swaying on the water. His mother's voice carried on the wind enough to let him know she was near. Her laughter was light and high. His head was starting to throb, the start of a headache from too much time in the sun. But he was in shade now, the boat cradling him, and no need to wake now. He could ignore the ache and slip back to sleep, he was warm, she was near, he was safe._

 _He was safe. Safe. That was important. He needed to be safe. The pounding grew in his head while the rocking boat fought to pull him back down. No, he was not safe. His hands resting on his bare chest were bound, he could feel the course ropes around his wrists. His side was aching with a fire that coursed its length. He was not safe and he struggled to wake now. The boat jostled his body, grinding the raw wood against his bare back. Not a boat, a cart. He was in a cart and the bump and sway of it was pushing his body into a painful wakefulness. So much hurt and he was not safe. His breathing got heavier as the pain surfaced and he moaned as he pushed open his eyes._

 _She was there instantly, her hand behind his head, lifting him gently._

 _"Hush then," she soothed, her face blocking some of the sunlight, causing a halo behind her._

 _He tried to focus but could not find her features. Not his mother, but . . . "Flea?" his voice was a raspy whisper and full of too many questions for one word to hold._

 _"Drink this," she said and held a cup to his lips. He was confused and he smelled the bitterness before it reached his tongue. Someone else made him drink bitter draughts. He knew he was supposed to do that. He didn't resist. He finished the cup and she laid his head back on the plank floor. The fire started to leave his side, the throbbing receded and he no longer felt the burn of rope around his wrists. He was swaying again to the rhythm of the waves. He was on a boat, and his mother was rocking him as she would a child. She was laughing light and high. He was safe. He slept._


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Thanks for the favs/follows/reviews :) I'm traveling so internet has been spotty, so if I didn't get a chance to respond to you personally yet, my apologies. Reviews mean a lot so thank you so much for taking the time to comment. Thank you to Issai for her patient beta-reading. She tries, but I'm still full of mistakes! Let's see if we can get the boys into a little bit more trouble before the end of 2016 . . ._

* * *

D'Artagnan gathered up Porthos's weapons and the collection of purses and wallets he'd taken from the slain men, and spared a final glance at the bloody room. There was some relief for him that his friend did not simply lie here among the dead, but despite his assurances to Flea that Porthos was still alive, the twisted knot trying to grow in the pit of his stomach belied his confidence. The lack of a body implied someone had taken him, but there was no rational reason to think he hadn't been killed at any point between now and then, or simply succumbed to injuries from what had obviously been a horrific and brutal fight. D'Artagnan let out a long breath, steadying his nerves and pushing aside the twisting terror that he could not allow to grow. There was as much reason to hope for life as there was to fear death.

Making his way back across the corridor, he was stopped short at the door by angry voices drifting from the room where he had left Flea and the girl. He put his back to the wall and listened, peering through the gap of the partially open door. A group of men argued, Flea at their center.

"I'm telling you," a gruff voice was saying, "bringing that Musketeer here was a mistake! He'll bring down the entire regiment on us." The man stepped into D'Artagnan's line of sight has he moved menacingly toward Flea. He was tall and lanky, with a long scar down his face and his hand on the pommel of a long dagger strapped to his side.

"He is here for his friend," Flea spat back, not backing down from the menacing man, "That is all."

"You shouldn't have been sleeping with a Musketeer to begin with," another man's voice lifted angrily.

"He's not just some Musketeer," a stocky man stepped forward to stand at Flea's side, "that's Porthos. He's one of us. No matter what."

"Are you forgetting that he saved all of us," Flea challenged, "he and the other Musketeers!"

"You overstep," the lanky man countered, "Charon's dead body is long cold and you are no Queen of the Court. Porthos does nothing for anyone but warm your bed."

" _You_ overstep, LaManage," the stocky man interjected, placing himself between Flea and the angry man. His companion stepped beside him as well, hand on the hilt of a rough weapon, "Flea's intercession with the Musketeers has brought us medical supplies and food – and a modicum of justice. What have you and the scum who follow you done but look out for yourselves? Not everyone here is a criminal!" he spat. D'Artagnan had heard enough to know the room was about to be an explosion of violence. He needed more information if he was to find any clue about who might have attacked Porthos and he was not going to find it if LaManage was in control. Nor could he let Flea be harmed – it would be a betrayal of his brother to not defend someone he loved. He didn't think much more than that, actions rather than strategy being his strong suit. He just stalked into the room.

"Gentlemen, I'd take a step back if I were you," D'Artagnan's voice was light, but his eyes were cold. He tossed the purses and wallets to the table and moved to stand by Flea, Porthos's rapier and main gauche ready in his hands. "I have no quarrel with Court," he said, looking LaManage in the eye, a grim smile tugging at his lips, "but I also have no problem wiping scum like you from the streets of Paris." A murderous look crossed LaManage's face and D'Artagnan hoped the man would be foolish enough to draw on him. He knew LaManage was assessing him, taking in his smaller frame and his youth. It would not be the first time an opponent had underestimated D'Artagnan. There were six men ranged against him, and it looked like two who were prepared to defend Flea. But D'Artagnan also had superior weapons and skill, LaManage and his group would not survive. LaManage seemed to come to the same conclusion and dropped his hands away from his body, palms up showing his submission. His men followed suit, stepping back and moving their hands from their weapons.

"Fine, _Musketeer_ ," LaManage sneered, "just be cautious we don't find you straying too far from Madame Flea's skirts." The look he shot Flea needed no further words to express the deep contempt he held for the woman. He pushed past D'Artagnan and strode from the room, his men following in his wake. D'Artagnan turned to watch them go, knowing he had made an enemy of a potentially dangerous man. He would need to watch his back while he was here alone, without his brothers to do it for him.

"Thank you," Flea said simply, lightly putting her hand on D'Artagnan's arm, still brandishing Porthos's sword. He took in her soft gesture and lowered his weapons, giving the young woman his full attention now that the danger had passed. "Not everyone here is a friend of Porthos," she said sadly, "or acknowledges the bravery of the Musketeers fighting to save the Court."

"It's alright," D'Artagnan tried to be reassuring and cool, the way he thought Athos might be in this situation, "We have other things to worry about." D'Artagnan stepped away from her, laying Porthos's rapier and main gauche on the table. The small dagger he kept in his belt, somehow the thought of returning it to Porthos was an omen toward success in finding him. But he had nowhere to start looking. He sighed and raked his hands through his hair. There had to be something here to point him toward Porthos's attackers. He began to pick through the purses, emptying the coins on the table and looking for tokens or signs mixed within. Flea spoke quietly to her men and then they left, leaving Flea and D'Artagnan alone in the room. She moved across the table, watching him leave the small pile of glittering coins to inspect the contents of the wallets.

"I've sent Bertrand and Joubert to follow LaManage," she said softly, worry creasing her pale face, "I don't trust him." D'Artagnan had the same feeling. He was considering now that killing LaManage and his men would have at least given him an outlet for his anger and worry.

"Where is Dominique?" he asked, realizing the girl had not been in the room during the argument.

"I sent her for some more wine and food," Flea responded, "I thought you might need something after searching in there," she finished with a choked back sob, wrapping her arms around her shoulders and shivering slightly.

D'Artagnan reminded himself that she had seen Porthos fall in that gory room and he tried to find some comforting word to say. "We will find him Flea," he said earnestly, "He's not dead and we will find him. You have to have faith."

"In what?" the words were almost a sob, "God left this place long ago."

"In Musketeers," D'Artagnan said with conviction, his heart beating faster at his own words, "We will find Porthos and we will bring him home." D'Artagnan's eyes flashed darkly as he looked up at her. He held her gaze until he saw her eyes brighten, a small hope once again lighting her face. She nodded in agreement, not trusting herself to speak.

D'Artagnan turned his attention back to the wallets, as Dominique returned with a tray of food and a bottle of wine tucked under her arm. She put the meager fare on the other end of the table, and poured Flea a cup of wine, urging her to sit with her. D'Artagnan rifled through the blood-soaked contents of the billfolds, finding little of interest. A collection of letters from one man's mistress and in another what looked like bills of sale and delivery routes for perhaps a merchant. The third was empty except for a large, odd-shaped coin that dropped from its fold. D'Artagnan had never seen anything like that. It wasn't French sous or livre – he knew enough about those coins. And it wasn't copper or silver – it was tin. One side had a lady on a swing, her skirts billowing and showing far more leg than appropriate. Flipping it over, the words _La Chatte Secrete_ were stamped on the back. D'Artagnan wasn't sure what it was, but since it was unusual he folded it up with the letters and bills of sale and stuffed them into one of the ammunition pouches on his belt having no other pockets without his doublet. He raked a hand through his hair. "There's nothing here that helps us," he sighed in frustration.

"Some wine, Monsieur?" Dominique offered from across the room, trying to soothe the agitated man. D'Artagnan sighed deeply, trying to regain his composure. He rubbed a hand across his brow, massaging his forehead to relieve the headache starting to build behind his eyes. He loathed the helplessness he was feeling. This was worse than being wounded and having to fight – he was here, hale and healthy and well-armed and there was nothing to do except wrestle with the fears in his own mind. He thought about returning to the Garrison, but he couldn't bear to face his brothers empty-handed with nothing to help them find Porthos. D'Artagnan let out a loud exhale and shook his head, trying to dispel the worry that was building there.

"Thank you," he said, moving to take the cup from Dominique and pulling up a chair beside Flea, "Are you sure there is nothing you remember that can help us?" he asked her, hoping that now that some time had passed she might be able to speak more about the events of the early morning.

"No," she sighed, tears welling up in her eyes, "They said nothing about their purpose. They just focused on the fighting, and I remember nothing after Porthos fell," she finished with a wavering voice.

"We will figure this out," he said, trying to sound confident. D'Artagnan cast his mind back to the carnage of the bloody room, the eight men left dead. There had to be at least four left alive to have moved an unconscious man the size of Porthos out of that room. Likely more than that as Flea had said he was surrounded when he fell. "Let me ask this," D'Artagnan said slowly, a new idea forming in his mind, "How do you think those men got out of here carrying a man the size of Porthos without being seen?"

Flea pursed her lips as she considered, but it was Dominique who answered. "I know," she said cautiously, "At least I think I know what I would do," she added. D'Artagnan sat up in the chair, giving the girl his full attention and nodding at her to continue. She spared Flea a sheepish glance, and licked her lips nervously, "Well, I'm not supposed to say, but at the other end of the corridor is a room with secret stairs to the lower floor, near we have the kitchen."

Flea looked at her incredulously. "What?" she breathed.

"It's for us," she said, "for the children. It's how we hide when there's fighting or . . ." she trailed off. D'Artagnan considered for the first time what life must be like for the children in the Court of Miracles. Of course, they would have their secrets too.

"Can you show me?" he asked her.

"I'm not supposed to," she fretted, twisting her skirt in her hands.

"I won't tell, I promise," D'Artagnan said, taking her small hands in his, "I'm a Musketeer, so I have to keep my word," he tipped his head to meet her gaze, "Please. I need your help." Dominique considered this a moment, whatever loyalties she had to her friends warring with helping the kind man find Porthos, someone she knew and liked too. She finally nodded and slipped off the chair, pulling D'Artagnan with her. She paused a moment to take a candle from the table. Flea followed them as they walked quickly to the far end of the corridor.

Dominique pushed open a door at the end of the hallway and brought them into a surprisingly large room littered with remnants from when this place had been a theatre. There were decaying bits of what had once been gaudy costumes hung on pegs along the walls, a crate of strange objects including a yellow painted crown, a wooden dagger and what looked like a human skull. There were a few tables and chairs and remnants of pots of face paint and rouges. This looked like a room where the performers might have stored their things and prepared for their performances. It was disused and dusty, clear that no one gave notice to this room among the many others the denizens of the Court had taken to occupy.

"Where is the secret door?" D'Artagnan urged his young guide. She dropped his hand and moved to the other side of the room. Brushing aside the remains of a brocade dress hanging from a peg, she revealed a small finger-sized hole in the wood panel of the wall. She hooked her finger into the hole and tugged. The panel of wall swung open and into the room.

"How did you children find this," Flea breathed. Dominque just shrugged. She had no idea, it was just one of those mysteries of childhood, passed from one to the next.

D'Artagnan stepped to the doorway and pulled it further open. It was dark, but he could see the first steps of a staircase. He gently took the candle from Dominique and held it up into the blackness, revealing more of the stairs, and something shining on the floor. D'Artagnan squatted and slipped his fingers to the shiny substance. He withdrew his fingers immediately, the candle revealing that he had just run his hand into a congealing pool of blood. "Where does this stair lead?" he asked the girl through tight lips.

"All the way to the bottom floor and out into the street," she answered. D'Artagnan considered that. If this room was where the performers prepared, this secret exit might be a way for them to avoid the unwanted attention of the crowd after a performance. Or the arrival of rival suitors. Now it had been a means to carry out an attack and an abduction. D'Artagnan stood and held the candle before him, walking cautiously down the staircase. Bloody footprints marked the stairs, but D'Artagnan had no way of knowing if it was from Porthos's injuries or a man he had wounded, but seeing the blood made his gut wrench again with fear of the condition of his friend. D'Artagnan bit his tongue to keep from voicing his thoughts, not wanting to further worry the two that followed him. At the bottom of the stairs, D'Artagnan reached a dead end. He leaned into the wall and pushed with shoulder. It gave rather easily beneath his weight and he stumbled out into a narrow street, blinking against the intensity of the sunlight. The street had life now, but in the early morning it would have been all but deserted.

"Where does this street lead," D'Artagnan asked Flea as she slipped out the door behind him.

"Up this way," she gestured to her right, it goes deep into the heart of the Court. And here," she pointed to her left," to Pony-side." D'Artagnan knew that was close by, having entered that way with Dominique just a few hours ago. But that was still a long way to drag an unconscious man, especially one the size of Porthos, through the streets. And Porthos was known here, they would need to have hidden him quickly.

D'Artagnan scanned the crowded street filled with shabby curtained doorways and dirty children scooping rainwater from a barrel. There were not the usual signs of Paris – no shops lined the streets, no merchants or tradesmen at work. People sat in the shadows avoiding the sunlight or picked their way across the foul street that was more like a muddy track between the leaning buildings. There were no horses here or carts, no easy way to transport someone unseen without the cart itself drawing the attention of the criminals that called this place home. Still, there had to be something.

"Flea," D'Artagnan voiced his thoughts, "how might someone get Porthos out of this quarter unseen, and quickly at that? They'd need a cart or a horse but I see none of that here."

Before Flea could respond, it was Dominique who again provided the answer, "The man was here this morning to deliver the wine," she went on eagerly, "He always is very early and comes with many men. For protection. It's dangerous to have things here," she added. D'Artagnan bent and gripped her small shoulders in his hands, true hope finally flaring in his heart for the first time

"Dominique, you are brilliant," he said and enthusiastically kissed the top of the girl's head before letting her go. He didn't see her face flush red from the unexpected attention of the handsome Musketeer as D'Artagnan was already considering how best to track down this man and what might indeed be very precious cargo he carried. Before he could pursue his line of thought, D'Artagnan's attention was drawn to an older boy pushing his way through the street, obviously making his way to the threesome by the open doorway. Instinctually, D'Artagnan moved Dominique behind him to stand with Flea, and slipped his hand to his sword belt hidden below his cloak. The boy looked about 14-years-old and was breathless as he spoke.

"You are the Musketeer, yes?" he queried, not waiting for D'Artagnan to answer before he continued, "You must come right away, Monsieur. The other Musketeer, Porthos," the boy spat out. "He says you must hurry."

"Where is he?" D'Artagnan gripped the boy's shoulder, "Is he hurt?"

The boy ignored his questions and replied "Come with me," and he shrugged off D'Artagnan's hand, and made his way back into the street. That was enough for D'Artagnan, and he moved quickly to follow.

"No, D'Artagnan!" Flea cried out, "Wait!" but D'Artagnan ignored her plea as he struggled not to lose sight of the boy running ahead.

The boy wove quickly through the street and D'Artagnan was hard pressed to keep up with him. The lad did slow down once or twice to look over his shoulder and make sure the Musketeer was still following him. The street became even more rundown and the footing beneath him more like the bed of a muddy river. The boy turned a corner and disappeared into a narrow alley. D'Artagnan pressed on to follow him as a thought popped into his mind. _How had the boy known he was a Musketeer_? He was not in a uniform, his weapons were concealed and yet the boy had been searching the crowd, specifically for him. His intuition screamed suddenly that something was not right and he pulled up from the headlong run into the darkened alley but it was too late. He was already surrounded by a pack of men crowding in around him. It was too close quarters for him to draw sword, but he did manage to get his hand on Porthos's dagger still tucked in his belt, attempting to bring it up to defend himself. It didn't matter though, as he never got a strike. A piercing fire stabbed through his back and into his left shoulder, sending pain and numbness coursing instantly along his left hand. The blade dropped from useless fingers. Fits pummeled him in the back and stomach and he felt himself sink to his knees. Someone punched him hard across the jaw and his head snapped back as he crumpled to the ground. His vision swam and he tried weakly to gain purchase to stand but was having trouble controlling his limbs. Then a booted foot hit his back, another his gut, and then finally the back of his head. He blacked out instantly.

LaManage emerged from a doorway as two of his men lifted the limp body from the dirt and held him upright. A third moved behind them and pulled back D'Artagnan's head by the hair, a blade glinting from his other hand as he pressed it to the Gascon's throat.

"No, Jacques," LaManage said behind a guttural laugh, "No. His blood his worth more money than that." The man looked at his master, confused. "Ransom," he continued, "I'm sure the rest of the Musketeers will pay dearly for his return. And, we'll show Flea and her ilk that they are not the ones with the power here. Capturing this boy alive is a stroke of luck."

"What if the Musketeers won't pay?" Jacques squinted at LaManage.

"It doesn't matter if they do or don't," LaManage replied coldly, bending to pick up the dropped dagger. "You'll slit his throat either way. But if we wait, there will be coin in our pockets along with one dead Musketeer."


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Thank you so much for the encouragement and kind words :) Thanks to Issai for all of her work to keep my writing clear and readable. Despite her efforts, the failures are all mine. This chapter is a little long, but I hope satisfying - it was time for some action and I enjoyed writing it :)_

* * *

 **Chapter 5**

Aramis couldn't really explain why the thought of returning to the Court gave him pause. It's not as if he was not used to low places or poor and desperate people. He came from a place himself one might have seen as just as low and hard. It saddened him to see the abject misery and poverty of the Court, but that didn't explain this nagging, worried fear that tugged at the back of his mind.

He could not shake now from his memory the first time he, Athos and D'Artagnan had passed into its maze of streets only to be met by anger and menace from its residents. A mob had been on the verge of forming at the sight of uniformed Musketeers in their midst and the men had retreated rather than stand against that. A mindless mob is a terrifying thing for any man to face, but since that time they had returned to assist the people of the Court and no longer were met with resistance. There was no reason to think this visit would be different.

What was bothering him, Aramis, finally figured out, was the fear that they would lose Porthos back to that place. Despite him having said he would not stay with Flea, Porthos was spending more and more time in her company. He no longer stayed for a game of cards or sometimes even supper with his companions and he returned in the morning well after breakfast and sometimes halfway through muster. Now, he had simply not shown up at all. They were losing him.

Of all of them, Porthos alone was the one who still had a place to go to where someone still loved him. That was not the case with the rest of them. D'Artagnan was orphaned now, his family farm just an empty place that gave him a meager income. Athos had renounced his home and title, the death meted out on his lands scarring his heart and driving him from ever calling that place home. Aramis's mother was dead, the women and girls he'd grown up with scattered now all over France. The Garrison, the Musketeers – that was the only home the three of them had. But Porthos, he still had a choice, a place, another family he could return to. Aramis felt an old longing in his heart as memories of his mother surfaced. As much as he could not imagine a life where Porthos left the Musketeers, he was not so sure that he could have resisted the call of family himself.

Aramis was pulled from his thoughts by a hand on his arm, pausing him in his stride. While there was no entryway to mark the boundary, this street would take them deeper into the most miserable district of Paris. They wore the uniforms of Musketeers, which earned them respect and access in almost all quarters in France, but garnered them little here in this city of the desperate within the very walls of Paris.

* * *

"Look sharp," Athos cautioned, having allowed until now the silent brooding of his friend, "I'm not entirely sure of our welcome here." It was true that the last few weeks had shown a guarded acceptance for the Musketeers on these streets when they had delivered medical supplies and food on the behest of Porthos. They'd taken three murders into custody as well, turned over by the people of the Court for brutality even the criminals here could not stomach. But this was their first visit uninvited and while Athos knew the way to where Flea kept her apartments in the old theater, without an escort they might not be permitted to walk these streets. Athos considered again if they should have used a disguise, but he resolved himself once more that openness about their purpose was their best strategy.

Beside him Aramis made a few small adjustments to his gear, shifting positions of his holsters slightly forward, tucking his purse in his breast pocket and shifting his main gauche to his right side for a cross-body draw. No need to offer the pickpockets too easy a mark. He nodded to Athos that he was ready and pulled his hat slightly forward, shading the sun from his eyes.

They proceeded into the narrow street with Athos a half step ahead, leading the way forward and keeping careful eyes on who might be giving them attention. Aramis's gaze swept left and right, looking for potential threats in the shadowed doorways and windows. But their gate and pace were relaxed having no need to signal worry or distrust. The court was not large and they would have been dragging Porthos out of Flea's bed in under ten minutes if their progress had not been interrupted.

"Musketeers!" a young voice called out and both men stopped. Athos turned toward his left to see who wanted their attention while Aramis kept forward, eyes sweeping around. A boy of about thirteen approached arms extending in front of him, something wrapped in a dirty cloth laying across his upturned palms. Athos raised a brow at the approaching boy.

"You were waiting for us?" Athos asked calmly.

"I was told to watch for Musketeers," the boy replied, "but you are here much sooner than expected. I didn't think the message was delivered yet."

Athos had no idea what the boy was talking about but coolly responded, "Well here we are. What do you have there?"

"Proof that we have your man," the boy said cockily and offered the wrapped bundle to Athos. He took it from the boy's hands and let the cloth fall away to the ground. Porthos's dagger. The only sign Athos gave that this disturbed him was his hand tightening around the hilt. He felt Aramis stiffen slightly beside him as he glanced over to see what Athos had revealed.

"You're to give me the money," the boy said, rolling his shoulders back and meeting Athos's dark gaze with a bold stare. Athos's stomach twisted as his mind put the pieces together. Kidnapping. Anger at Porthos's stupidity for being here at all warred with fear about his friend's safety. He thought quickly about his response.

"What you have given me is proof that you have pickpocketed his weapon," Athos responded calmly, "I will need to see him alive before any money changes hands." He flicked a glance to Aramis who responded with a long blink. He understood.

"So you brought the money?" the boy pressed.

"Do you think me a fool?" Athos retorted, "I'll return to our men and retrieve the coin once we see my man is safe."

The boy considered this, apparently not what he expected, but still within the parameters of his instructions.

"Follow me," he said and led them further into the Court. Athos and Aramis said nothing but exchanged a glance that confirmed the violence they were about to commit to retrieve Porthos from the hands of his captors.

They followed the boy down a narrow street that soon opened into a small courtyard. A ramshackle wooden stairway led up to a makeshift second level that formed a bridge across the street below. They stopped in the middle and the boy gave a low whistle. A gang of men stepped out of the shadows, essentially surrounding the perimeter of the courtyard. The Musketeers surveyed the men quickly, noting clubs and batons, some long daggers and probably some knives they could not see. But no swords, and no pistols.

"Eight men," Athos said quietly as he exhaled.

"Above you," Aramis breathed, lowering his head but flicking his eyes up to the rickety bridge. A tall, lanky man with a long scar down his face strode onto the platform. He did have a pistol, and a fine sword and belt buckled around his waist. But the Musketeers had little attention to spare to him as two men dragged the limp body of D'Artagnan out to the center of the bridge. Athos took in a sharp inhale and he felt Aramis's hand grip his arm. This was not at all what they were expecting. The tall man laughed at what he assumed was their discomfort at seeing their man at his mercy.

"You Musketeers are not so tough after all," he taunted, "So watch yourselves."

"We consider ourselves duly warned," Athos replied with a nod of his head. He was too practiced a soldier to reveal anything to D'Artagnan's captors, but inside his mind was moving rapidly, trying to assess D'Artagnan's condition and strategize the best approach for a rescue. He needed more information. "However, it looks like you've caught our stable boy," Athos said glibly, "I was prepared to ransom a Musketeer. Him I'm not so sure about. Is he even alive?"

The tall man made a gesture and one of the men holding D'Artagnan lifted his head by his hair so that they could see his face. It was pale and blood trailed from his temples and down his cheek. The other man suddenly slapped D'Artagnan across the face and the boy let out a moan but did not seem to fully regain consciousness. Athos felt the heat rise in his face at the mistreatment of his comrade, but again, schooled his voice to a cool and easy tone.

"I guess he's not dead," Athos said flatly. They knew now that D'Artagnan was in no condition to help with his own rescue. Athos knew they would have to deal first with the men on the bridge to prevent them hurting D'Artagnan further or dragging him off into the maze of winding streets while they battled the men on the ground. He heard the small clicks of Aramis cocking his pistols from under his cloak and he knew Aramis saw the same thing.

"I suppose we should give these men their payment," Athos's voice was easy and light. Aramis dipped his head in acquiescence, a grim smile playing across his face. Athos could tell that he too was ready to kill these men who were abusing their brother. They waited a split second more, for the tension in the bodies of the men around them to drop slightly, a natural response to thinking they had just won the upper hand.

In one smooth gesture, Aramis brushed aside his cloak and cross drew both of his pistols, immediately firing at the two men holding D'Artagnan. He hit both his marks, red stains blossoming on their chests. They collapsed, taking D'Artagnan down with them in a heap. The tall man tried to draw D'Artagnan's pistol but was too slow, Athos getting off a shot and clipping his shoulder before the man could even get the weapon from the holster. He howled in agony and stumbled backward, reeling from the pain and the force of the shot. Athos heard Aramis's pistols thud to the ground and then the whisper of steel being pulled from leather as Aramis drew his blades. Athos was already following suit with his rapier as the men surrounding them rushed in to attack. They were woefully outnumbered, but the thugs attacking them were woefully unprepared. Athos threw Porthos's dagger, still clutched in his hand, at the first charging assailant. It pierced his throat and he stopped still in his tracks for a moment before falling slowly to the ground. Now they only had seven to deal with.

He and Aramis moved apart, giving each other enough room to maneuver and yet watch each other's backs. Athos cut a low circle with his sword, catching the next man with a wicked slice across his midsection. As the man doubled over screaming, he arced his rapier upwards, hoping to slice the next under his arm. This one was more agile though and dodged to avoid the blade. It clipped him on the arm, but not enough to slow him down. The attacker had a long dagger drawn and lunged low toward Athos's midsection. Athos twisted away from the blade and brought his rapier down across the attacker's neck. The man screamed as he fell, blood spurting from the deep gash.

At the same time, Aramis behind him was rushed by three hefty men brandishing clubs and batons. It was clear they simply hoped to overwhelm him with numbers and size. He calculated quickly and choose to take out the man at the center with a low, lunging thrust to the torso. The attacker could not react fast enough and his forward momentum impaled himself further onto Aramis's blade. The man to Aramis's left took a mighty swing at his head with an iron-studded club, but Aramis was able to bring up his main gauche and parry the blow. The man on the right saw his opportunity and flung himself forward. Aramis pulled his rapier free from the chest of the fist attacker and brought up his right fist, connecting the basket of his sword with the man's face. His attacker staggered backward, momentarily stunned. Aramis returned his attention to the man on his left and flipped his main gauche to position it for an overhand strike, shoving the blade into the attacker's left eye. Unfortunately, it stuck there as the man wheeled away, clutching at his face while blood poured from his wound. The man on Aramis's right now had an advantage and rained down his heavy club on Aramis's shoulder, bringing him to his knees. He struck again and Aramis managed to get his sword arm up for a parry to prevent the blow from hitting him in the head. His right shoulder again took the force of the strike and he felt it vibrate painfully down his arm. Experience and will power were the only things that kept Aramis's sword in his hand. He needed to get up from his vulnerable position on the ground but the big man was already poised to take his next blow.

Having dispatched his man, Athos whirled in a half circle and plunged his main gauche into the chest of Aramis's attacker with a heavy, backhanded thrust. He pulled the blade free as the man toppled forward, eyes bulging in agony and death. He spared a glance to see Aramis scrambling to get out from under the falling man, then turned to face the last two men, putting himself between them and Aramis. They came at him with long daggers and clubs. As he calculated which one to engage first, motion on the bridge above them drew his eye. The tall man that he had shot at the start was up on his feet again, pistol drawn and staggering toward the men on the ground.

"D'Artagnan!" Athos roared, as the two attackers took advantage of his momentary distraction to slip past his sword. One grabbed his sword arm the other attempted to smash his club into Athos's face. Athos managed to catch the attacker's wrist and hold him off. Struggling with both men, he was helpless to prevent the scene unfolding on the bridge.

"Behind you," Aramis informed him, as Athos felt a familiar hand a wrap around his waist and slip his remaining pistol from its holster. Still on the ground, Aramis leaned in, impossibly aiming the pistol upwards between the men struggling with Athos. Two shots rang out nearly simultaneously and the man on the bridge crumpled to the ground, but Athos had no way of knowing who shot first.

He felt Aramis release his hold on him and then the marksman flung himself at the man wielding the club. Athos released his grip on the man's wrist and Aramis's attack sent them both rolling in the dirt. Aramis grappled to the better position and with a knee on the attacker's chest, cracked the man hard in the temple with the butt of Athos's pistol. Athos swung his left hand into the head of the man holding his sword arm, trying to loosen his grip. When that failed, he grabbed him by the back of the neck and kicked him hard in the gut. The man reflexively dropped his hold on Athos as he doubled over gasping for breath. Athos brought rapier across the man's torso and he dropped to the ground screaming. Breathing hard, he raced toward the wooden steps, thinking only of getting to D'Artagnan as quickly as possible.

At the bottom of the stair, a rush of air and sound brushed past his face and he pulled himself up short just as a man with a raised dagger staggered from the shadowed overhang beneath the bridge. His eyes were wide as he gasped for air, a knife embedded in his chest. There had been nine men after all. Aramis's sharp reflexes and legendary accuracy had just saved him, not the first time in their long battle history. He glanced back at Aramis, on his knees still in the courtyard, catching his breath.

"Go!" Aramis called breathlessly to him, indicating with a raised hand that he was alright. Athos dropped his hesitation and took the steps two at a time. He was caught up short by the tangle of bodies heaped on the small bridge. Blood was everywhere, but from whose wounds it was impossible to tell. Fear gripped him as he shifted the bodies, trying to get to D'Artagnan. He freed him from the tangle of his two dead captors and laid him flat on his back. He pressed his fingers to D'Artagnan's neck searching for a pulse, holding his breath until he felt the rapid beating beneath his fingers. There didn't seem to be a gunshot wound. It looked like Aramis had hit first and the attacker's shot had missed its mark. Athos exhaled in relief, his eyes softening as he lightly clapped D'Artagnan's cheek, trying to rouse him. He was rewarded with a soft moan and D'Artagnan instinctively rolling his head away from the disturbing hand.

"D'Artagnan," Athos gently called his name, again lightly slapping his cheek, "C'mon, open your eyes." The boy moaned again, his eyelids fluttering as he struggled to push them open. "D'Artagnan!" Athos said more urgently, encouraging him to consciousness. The young man blinked a few times then managed to hold his eyes open, straining to focus on the face in front of him.

"Athos," he exhaled, starting to breathe heavily as the pain of his various wounds began to register. D'Artagnan grimaced as he tried to shift into a sitting position, but Athos's hand on his chest lightly pushed him back.

"Be still," Athos said coolly, "Let's check you out first." He looked over his shoulder to see Aramis crest the top of the stairs.

"The ones that didn't run off are dead," the marksman reported as he knelt by D'Artagnan's side, "How is he?" he asked, glancing at Athos while he pulled his gloves off.

"I'm fine," D'Artagnan answered for himself, sucking breath in through teeth clenched against the growing pain in his head and shoulder.

"Hmmm," was Aramis's only response, as he tucked his gloves in his belt and moved to review D'Artagnan's injuries. "Can you tell me what happened?" he asked, laying his hands on D'Artagnan's head and feeling for injury.

"Jumped me in an alley," he mumbled, ". . . too many of them - oww" D'Artagnan winced as Aramis found the lump caused by the boot to his head.

"Sorry," Aramis said gently, brushing D'Artagnan's hair from his face and looking at the wound on his temple. The lump was large but the cut was shallow and already closed over. "Where else are you hurt?"

"Got kicked . . . ribs," D'Artagnan said through gritted teeth. Aramis pulled up his shirt to see a bruise the shape of a man's foot already forming along D'Artagnan's side.

"That you did," he said softly, his eyes pained by the suffering he inflicted on his friend as he probed at the ribs. Luckily he didn't feel any breaks. Aramis gently lowered the shirt back over the boy's torso.

"Porthos!" D'Artagnan blurted out suddenly, struggling again to sit up and breathing hard. Athos gripped the boy's arm to steady him, seeing the panic rising in his eyes.

"D'Artagnan, easy," Athos said trying to reassure the boy, "Where is he?"

"Attacked him," D'Artagnan answered through panicked breaths, "Took him . . . he's alive," he pulled at Aramis's arm too, using both of them to pull himself to a sitting position. His eyes were glassy and sweat slicked his skin. He looked at Athos in desperation, "I know he's alive!" D'Artagnan was panting and now let out a loud groan as this new position allowed Aramis to discover the wound in his shoulder. Athos reached a hand to cup D'Artagnan's face and bring his focus back. He needed to know about Porthos.

"Who," Athos nearly growled, "Who attacked Porthos? Where is he?" D'Artagnan shook his head, trying to find his thoughts. His eyes squeezed shut as the motion made his head throb. "D'Artagnan!" Athos said urgently, slightly tightening his grip on the boy's face. He was rewarded with a small moan as D'Artagnan pried his eyes open again and looked beseechingly at Athos.

"Took 'im," he whispered up to his mentor, "You have to go," he added, pushing feebly at Athos's chest as if to send him off to find Porthos right then.

"Athos," Aramis said quietly, placing a hand on his friend's forearm and shaking his head. He was supporting D'Artagnan with a hand to his back. "He has a deep wound here," he said softly, "He's losing blood and he's barely making sense. We need to tend to this." Athos clenched his jaw and exhaled through his nose, fighting back the angry retort he wanted to spit out. But he knew enough to listen to Aramis. The marksman's entire demeanor had changed when he found that wound, and now his eyes held urgency and worry. Athos nodded his cooperation. "This will take time," Aramis said, "and we have been in this place too long as it is," his eyes flicking over the area, looking for any sign that more men might be coming. With no imminent threat, Aramis focused his attention back to the boy sitting between them, head now leaning heavily into Athos's hand, trying to hold on to consciousness.

"Flea," it was barely above a whisper. D'Artagnan's head was swimming but he struggled to raise it to meet Athos's eyes. Understanding, Athos shifted his grip to behind the boy's neck to support him, "She knows . . . Porthos." D'Artagnan looked desperate.

"Ok, we'll find Flea," Athos answered, hoping he was interpreting right. This seemed to relieve some of the young Musketeer's distress and he felt D'Artagnan's body relax slightly, his head slipping more firmly into the hand supporting him and his grip loosening on Athos's arm. Aramis had a knee behind D'Artagnan's back now, keeping him upright while he placed his folded handkerchief beneath D'Artagnan's shirt and pressed it against the wound in his shoulder. D'Artagnan moaned but didn't have the strength left to pull away.

"I'll wrap this in place so he doesn't bleed to death before we get there," Aramis said wryly. He was clearly concerned and angry, but it was hard for Athos to determine if it was the severity of D'Artagnan's wounds or his concern for Porthos fueling his feelings. It certainly was pressing on both men that they urgently needed to find Porthos and the only one with any answers was hardly coherent. Athos hoped Flea could at least fill them in on what had happened and why D'Artagnan was here.

Athos released D'Artagnan to Aramis's hands and moved to kneel beside the man he and Aramis had both shot. He relieved him of D'Artagnan's sword belt which he had cockily put around his own waist. Sword, main gauche, and ammunition were still there. He retrieved D'Artagnan's pistol as well, slipping that into one of his holsters before slinging the sword belt over his shoulder.

"Ready?" he asked Aramis. The medic nodded and positioned himself next to D'Artagnan's wounded shoulder. "D'Artagnan," Athos said, offering his hand to his comrade. D'Artagnan took it with a stronger grip that Athos expected and he pulled the young man to his feet, while Aramis supported his back from the other side. The boy grimaced and exhaled sharply, but determination shone in his eyes. They needed to move from here and D'Artagnan was not going to endanger his friends by forcing them to stay any longer in this exposed place.

Athos slipped D'Artagnan's arm over his shoulder, and he felt the boy lean into him for support. They made their way awkwardly down the staircase and then Aramis was there at D'Artagnan's other side to grip a supportive hand lightly around his upper arm.

"I've got our gear," Aramis said, anticipating Athos's next concern, "And Porthos's dagger," he added, "Now you need to figure out how to get us out of here without any more trouble." Aramis's voice held a light tone, but Athos knew his friend was not joking. Careful of his wounded comrade, Athos threaded his way back through the narrow streets, worry about their missing friend battling with the need to get D'Artagnan safely home.


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Thank you to everyone who is following this story. I appreciate it and appreciate very much each and every comment. I try to respond to everyone, but if I missed you, please don't think you are intentionally overlooked -ffn is fickle sometimes. Thanks as always goes to my wonderful beta-reader Issai - she is responsible for all of the clarity in the battle scenes and details in the injuries and treatments. There are still plenty of mistakes and inaccuracies and those are all me. Thanks to FierGascon and Kmy068 for kindly correcting my french, and Deana for reminding that I had thumped Aramis pretty good in that last chapter, not just D'Art. If you've been wondering how Porthos is faring this chapter will give you some insight - but it probably won't make you happy. . ._

* * *

In the end, getting D'Artagnan back to the garrison and finding Flea in order to question her turned out to be amazingly simple. Almost half of the regiment met them just as they emerged from the courtyard, led by a furious Captain Treville. He had received a ransom note about a Musketeer held in the Court of Miracles and they'd shown up in force, just to make their position clear on their feelings about that. While Athos explained the rescue, Aramis, with the help of another Musketeer, got D'Artagnan up on a horse. He was pale and trembling but the look in his eye made it clear he would not be riding in front of Aramis like a child. Aramis had to settle for riding close quarters beside him, reaching out a hand now and again to steady his friend in the saddle. They started back for the garrison immediately with an escort of Musketeers, while Athos finished his report to Treville.

By the time the rest of the garrison were ready to mount up, they were met by a small band of rough-looking men with a woman at their head. Athos recognized Flea immediately. She introduced her man Bertrand, who had been following the criminal who had taken D'Artagnan. He had watched them confront the two Musketeers and ran off to find help as soon as the fighting started. They reassured her about D'Artagnan's condition, but she insisted on seeing him, just as she insisted she must tell Athos personally about Porthos. She stood her ground with the gruff Musketeer Captain, and although she barely came up to his nose, did not tremble or weaken underneath his commanding gaze. In the end, Treville put Flea up on his own horse and walked back to the Garrison, the horse's lead in his hands. Athos rode beside her, taking advantage of their slow pace to hear Flea's account of the morning's events.

As soon as Aramis and D'Artagnan passed through the sheltering archway and into the garrison courtyard, Aramis was off his horse, swinging his right leg over the pommel of his saddle and landing gracefully on both feet beside his mount. Handing the leads to one of the stable boys, he moved to D'Artagnan's side, hand on his leg, urging him to dismount. D'Artagnan was far less graceful, seeming to have lost his sense of coordination on the short ride back to the garrison. As Aramis put a hand to the small of his back, D'Artagnan managed to drag his right leg across the back of his mount and slip clumsily to the ground beside Aramis. Aramis steadied him and felt the boy trembling – no, shivering. He turned D'Artagnan toward him and brushed the damp hair from in front of his eyes. The face that peered back was extremely pale, the darks of his eyes wide and his gaze glassy. Aramis pulled off one of his gloves with his teeth and clapped his bare hand over the boy's cheek, feeling the cool, clammy skin and the force of the shivering setting into his jaw.

"Jean-Claude," Aramis called out to one of the Musketeers as he swung D'Artagnan's arm over his shoulder, "can you bring hot water and a bottle of wine up to my quarters?" The young Musketeer nodded and made his way off to the kitchen, while Aramis helped D'Artagnan up the stairs to his room in the garrison. The boy was having difficulty breathing, taking in air in rapid, shallow gasps. Letting D'Artagnan lean on him, Aramis snagged a chair with his foot and pulled it in front of the small fireplace in his quarters. He gently deposited the Gascon into the chair, letting him lean forward with his arms resting on his knees. He had considered putting D'Artagnan in his bed but decided that the chair by the fire was better so that he could dress the shoulder wound. He grabbed the blanket from his bed and draped it around D'Artagnan's shoulders, then pulled another blanket out of the chest at the foot of his bed and did the same. Despite the relative warmth of the early spring day, Aramis next stooped to start a small fire, coaxing the flames to catch with gentle, patient breaths as he listened to D'Artagnan shiver behind him. Satisfied the fire had caught, he added a few larger bits of tinder and then turned to face D'Artagnan. He pulled the blankets forward and tucked them over each other at D'Artagnan's torso.

D'Artagnan for his part seemed to have little strength to do anything but clutch the blankets closer to his chest. Aramis rose and moved behind his friend, stroking his back to sooth his mind as much as to provide physical comfort. D'Artagnan finally sat up, flopping into the back of the chair with limbs that did not seem to want to obey him. His head rolled against Aramis's stomach and he looked up with a confused and worried gaze. "What's . . . happening . . . to me," he managed to ask between shallow, rapid breaths, "I'm c-cold. Can't. . . breathe . . ."

"I know," Aramis gave him a small sympathetic smile and hunkered down over his friend, moving his hands to now rub the length of D'Artagnan's arms, "Your body is reacting to the abuse it took today," he continued, his cheek pressed close to D'Artagnan's as he leaned over him, "we'll get some warmth back into you and you'll feel better. Try to relax, steady your breathing."

Aramis felt D'Artagnan nod in agreement and heard the change as he tried to deepen his breaths. He had seen men die of this even when their wounds and blood loss did not seem so great. Aramis took a moment to slip the blanket from D'Artagnan's left shoulder and check the wound. The cloth he had placed earlier showed a dark red stain, but it looked like the bleeding was slowing. This was a good sign, as losing blood was probably the main cause of D'Artagnan's symptoms. His brow furrowed through as he replaced the blanket and resumed rubbing the boy's arms, hoping to draw the boy's blood back to his extremities. Aramis himself was beginning to sweat in the warm room and with the exertion of his ministrations and his shoulder was aching where he had been viciously struck during the skirmish, but he didn't let up until Jean-Claude rapped on the door announcing he had the hot water and wine.

He gently pulled away from the boy, who hunched over slightly and let his head roll forward, collapsing in on himself to generate more warmth as his breathing became more regular. Aramis had Jean-Claude fill a mug with hot water while Aramis stripped off his sword belt and holsters and then unbuckled his leather doublet. He took a small wooden box from the chest by his bed and sorted through some packets and vials until he found a small sachet. He had Jean-Claude stoke the fire before he left, while Aramis mixed loose green leaves into the cup of hot water. He let it steep a moment and took the opportunity to finish removing his doublet, wincing at the pull to his shoulder. It hurt, but there were more pressing things to manage so Aramis rolled up his shirt sleeves and ignored the growing ache. He checked the cup and, satisfied his brew was ready, pressed it into D'Artagnan's hands. He was rewarded with a scowl and could not help but laugh.

"It's just peppermint tea, D'Artagnan," he smiled reassuringly, "I promise. Just something to warm you up and settle your stomach which I'm betting is not very comfortable just now." Aramis put his hand over D'Artagnan's and encouraged him to raise the cup, "Go on, now," he said softly.

D'Artagnan still looked suspicious, but once he brought the cup to his face he could smell the soothing peppermint rising in the steam. He sipped cautiously as it was hot, but his features softened as his tongue confirmed it was not one of Aramis's bitter concoctions. Aramis smiled to see D'Artagnan's relief that the tea was in fact not horrible. As D'Artagnan sipped, Aramis could see his breathing getting easier, and his shivers tapering off. He hoped too it would settle the boy's stomach a bit. He was fairly certain that the blows to his head would have left him queasy and nauseous even though D'Artagnan was not complaining about it.

Feeling that things were moving in the right direction, Aramis again rummaged in the chest by the bed and found clean cloths and bandages. He poured some of the hot water into a bowl and wet one of the cloths.

"I've got to clean these head wounds," he said as he stood again behind D'Artagnan, "and then we have to get your shirt off so I can get a better look at your shoulder and your ribs. What happened there?"

"I got jumped in an alley," D'Artagnan said sheepishly, "There were a lot of them. Someone stabbed me in the shoulder I think. I couldn't even draw my sword."

Aramis put a comforting hand on the back of the boy's neck, "It's alright. If it was the same gang of men that Athos and I attacked, you are lucky to only have just one stab wound and not a slit throat." Aramis felt a lump rise in his throat, grateful that the boy was sitting in front of him relatively intact. He wished he could feel the same about Porthos. He ran a hand through his hair and schooled his worry with the practiced skill of a charming courtier before he trusted himself to speak again, "I'll be as gentle as I can, D'Artagnan, but it will still hurt some. While I do this, can you tell me about what happened to Porthos?" his tone was calm and supportive. As D'Artagnan told his story, Aramis was thankful he needed to stand behind the boy to tend his wounds. He was sure that D'Artagnan would not appreciate submitting docilely to a man with murder in his eyes.

* * *

 _This time, consciousness came fast and hard on the crest of a wave of searing pain burning through his side. He remembered. He was on a cart, he was tied, he was hurt. He moaned and tried to roll over, but he was bound hand to foot now and hard hands held him down, pressing his back to the bed of the cart and letting his head bounce at every rut and ditch under the wheels. His moan was more a roar as he tried in vain to again push back the rough hands._

 _"Hold him steady," it was the woman, calm and confident, "this must be done." His breathing was labored and he felt chilled. Another voice echoed in his mind - Hold him steady. A man's gentle but urgent baritone and hands on him that were strong, but careful. His friends, his comrades . . . his brothers, he needed his brothers._

 _A thin, reedy voice cut through the memories forming in his head, "He deserves all the suffering we can inflict. Let the wounds fester for all I care," the man sounded like a petulant child. Not his boy . . . their boy . . . who was brave and compassionate. He slipped back and forth between memories and reality . . . whose hands were these now?_

 _"I have to tend this or he won't be strong enough to make the journey," she was speaking again, calmly, "We need him to be healthy enough to survive. Don't forget that," she added softly, "Now hand me the other needle, this is impossible to do right in a moving cart!" Something changed hands above him and he caught the sight of a large, curved needle – the kind for leather working. He thrashed hard then, but the men shifted position and bore down. Then the searing pain in his side ignited again as she drew needle and thread through raw and ragged flesh. He tried again to shake them off, arching his back despite the position he was tied in. Why would they do this to him?_

 _"Hold him," he heard her say, the frustration growing in her voice._

 _"I have a better idea," the man's voice and suddenly something slammed hard into his temple. He bit his tongue and tasted the coppery tang of his own blood. His head swam and he moaned as nausea gripped his stomach and bile rose in his throat. Before he couldretch, another blow fell and he descended into dark oblivion once more._

* * *

Aramis was gently winding a long bandage around D'Artagnan's shoulder when Athos slipped quietly in the door. D'Artagnan was slumped back in the chair, head resting against Aramis as he worked. The motion caught the corner of Aramis's eye and he glanced over to meet his friend's questioning gaze with a slight nod of his chin. _Yes, the boy was alright._

"D'Artagnan," Athos said quietly, not sure if the boy was aware that he was there, and not wanting to startle him.

"Athos," he muttered, and twisted his head toward the door, opening tired eyes to give his friend a weak smile. Athos took in D'Artagnan's gaze, seeing pain and exhaustion, but not the glassy, mad stare from only an hour earlier. His relief came out as a soft glance filled with gratitude directed at his marksman, who was too intent on carefully tying the bandage to notice.

"It's hot in here," Athos said dryly, taking in D'Artagnan's shirtless chest with the blankets still draped over his back and one shoulder.

"Yes," Aramis answered, "We can put that fire out now. We seem to be past needing that," Aramis was sweating through his shirt, not an unfamiliar sight when he was involved in caring for a wounded man. His own needs seemed to fall to the wayside. "He got lucky with the shoulder, the joint's not injured," Aramis updated Athos as he finished with the bandage, "Puncture wound into the muscle. I can't stitch it, but it's clean and the bleeding has stopped. The ribs aren't broken, despite the boot marks on his back and side," Aramis's clenched jaw telling Athos how he felt about that, "The worst thing is probably his head," Aramis let warm affection seep into his voice and he lightly ran a hand over D'Artagnan's head, careful to avoid the places he knew to have taken the blows. Aramis didn't catch D'Artagnan rolling his eyes, but Athos did and gave the boy a slight smile.

Athos entered the room and pulled the fire apart with the poker. The embers would die out on their own. He cracked the window open and let a spring breeze lift the smell of smoke and sweat from the air. He crossed his arms and leaned against the mantle, waiting expectantly for Aramis's attention. If D'Artagnan was healthy enough, it was Porthos he was worried about now.

Aramis tucked the ends of the bandage under the neat knot he had tied at D'Artagnan's shoulder blade, and pulled the blankets back over the boy's shoulders. "D'Artagnan told me what he found at the Court," Aramis began.

"I spoke to Flea," Athos replied, then added, "She is here D'Artagnan, she insists on seeing you." It was a testament to how poorly the Gascon was feeling that he gave a soft "hmm" of acquiescence and offered no protest about it.

Aramis took up the wine bottle and brought three cups from the mantle. He poured and handed one to Athos, then pressed another into D'Artagnan's hands.D'Artagnan was grateful for it but surprised he wasn't being given one of Aramis's nasty teas.

"I agree with D'Artagnan," Aramis said tautly, "Porthos is still alive. There is no reason they would have taken him if he was not," Aramis put a hand under D'Artagnan's good shoulder and encouraged him to stand. Still clutching the wine cup, he complied.

"Agreed," Athos said simply, moving easily to D'Artagnan's other side and putting a strong hand around his arm. As if they had choreographed it, they walked the young recruit the few steps to Aramis's bed. Athos slipped the cup from D'Artagnan's hand as Aramis helped him to sit.

"So where do we start looking?" Aramis asked as he arranged two pillows at the headboard.

"I think the key is the wine cart," Athos said. He stooped to slide one arm under D'Artagnan's legs and swing his feet up on the bed while Aramis gently but firmly pressed him to lie back against the pillows. Athos had the wine cup back in D'Artagnan's hands before the boy could really protest what had just happened to him. Athos noticed the furrowed brow and the droop of D'Artagnan's eyelids. He could easily imagine the pain throbbing in the boy's head as he himself was no stranger to concussion and the unrelenting ache it brought on.

"How do we even begin to find it," Aramis sighed, turning the chair D'Artagnan had vacated to face the bed. He sat heavily, pulling a hand through his unruly hair, "There are dozens of wine merchants in Paris. It's a needle in a haystack."

"Yes," Athos replied, pulling up the other chair and straddling it, leaning his hands over the back, "but there are only two wine merchants who dare to brave the Court to make deliveries." Aramis's head shot up, eyebrows raised. "Flea was very helpful," Athos continued, draining his cup "and once we agreed that the wine cart was the only way to get Porthos out unseen, we narrowed down the options." Athos took the wine from the table and refilled his cup, then, after getting a small nod from Aramis, filled D'Artagnan's glass again as well.

"Who then," Aramis asked nonchalantly, deeply focused on finishing his own cup of wine. Athos could see the small signs of tension taking hold in his friend's lean frame. Aramis was pulled tight as a drum skin.

"The vineyards of _Saint Lucie_ and _Saint Martin_ ," Athos offered.

"Not so saintly, one of them," Aramis said between clenched teeth. He drained his cup and Athos handed him the bottle. He added more to D'Artagnan's cup before pouring the last out for himself. "Which one do you think?" he asked darkly.

"I have no idea," Athos responded, eyes as cold as his voice. " _Saint Lucie_ is two day's hard ride to the south. _Saint Martin_ only three hours outside of Paris to the North. We could split up."

"I don't like that," Aramis said simply. "We should go to _Saint Martin_ as its closest. If we are wrong, then on to _Saint Lucie_."

"If we are wrong," Athos said, "we will be well more than a day behind. We can't make up that much time."

"Damn," Aramis cursed, setting the cup on the table and raising a hand to brow, "we need more information. We can't just guess. We don't even know what this is about, why they wanted Porthos." He looked beseechingly at Athos, hoping for answers that he knew his friend did not have. Athos shook his head, jaw tight. He hated being uncertain but he was going to have to make a choice soon. Time was slipping away.

Athos shifted his gaze to D'Artagnan whose focus seemed to be drifting in and out of their conversation. There was worry in his protégé's eyes, but the taught line of his jaw also spoke to the pain he was fighting. D'Artagnan seemed to be getting more tense, despite the wine and the warm blankets. Their eyes met and Athos saw D'Artagnan's gaze widen as if seeing something that surprised him.

"My belt," D'Artagnan said sharply, "it's in my belt," Aramis sat up straighter in the chair, a look of concern crossing his face. He reached out to feel the boy's face for signs of fever but D'Artagnan pushed his hand aside, "No, I'm fine," he said urgently, "I found something from a merchant when I searched the dead men. I didn't have a pocket, so I put it in my munitions bag," he gestured toward the sword belt hanging over the back of Athos's chair, "please, my belt."

Athos handed D'Artagnan his sword belt, suddenly extremely grateful they had been able to retrieve it from his captors. D'Artagnan slipped the munitions bag from the leather strap and pulled it open. The folded bloody papers were in there and he passed them to Athos.

"I didn't know what they were," D'Artagnan said breathlessly, "but I thought they might be important." Athos glanced through the first few leaves then handed half the stack to Aramis.

"Well done, D'Artagnan," Athos said, a small proud smile slipping across his face, "This may be what saves Porthos." D'Artagnan smiled shyly and leaned back against the pillows. He had done his part, and Athos's praise seemed to give him the comfort he needed to settle back again while Athos and Aramis mulled over the new information.

"These are delivery timetables and bills of sale," Aramis observed. They were stained with blood, and much of them unreadable, "but I can't find a name of any kind."

Athos continued to rifle through the ones he held, "I think I have it," he said, eyes glowing fiercely, "look at the delivery dates routes," Aramis leaned in and looked at where he was pointing, "These can't be from _Saint Lucie_ , they would never make the first delivery on time, these have to originate from _Saint Martin_ or the schedule would never hold."

"Yes," Aramis breathed, clapping Athos on the shoulder. That brilliant military mind never failed them. It was a slim lead, but it was something. "It's three hour's ride, we still have enough daylight left," Aramis was on his feet, unrolling his shirtsleeves and getting into his doublet.

"Two hours maybe if we can ride hard," Athos added, getting up from his chair and handing Aramis his sword belt. He hadn't missed the stiffness in Aramis's movements or the grimace he tried to hide as he shrugged himself into his doublet. But he made a mental note to check on the marksman later as now D'Artagnan was gamely trying to sit himself up in bed. "No, D'Artagnan," Athos said sternly, "you are staying here."

Before the boy could protest, Aramis was sitting beside him, taking the wine cup from his loose grasp, "D'Artagnan, that wine we gave you was to make you sleepy," he said with a gentle smile. D'Artagnan looked up at him, a small shade of betrayal in his eyes.

"But the bitter one is for sleeping," he said, sounding much like a young boy, "I don't understand."

"I can't give you a sleeping draught when you have a head injury," Aramis explained, "there is always a danger it takes you too deep and then you don't wake up. But a little wine," he shrugged his shoulders and gave D'Artagnan a mischievous smile, "it will help you rest and recover."

Athos leaned over him and added, "You are useless if you are falling off your horse."

D'Artagnan's eyes were squinted against what Athos was sure must be a throbbing headache. He put a hand on D'Artagnan's leg and gently squeezed, "Get some rest and we will bring Porthos home to you."

D'Artagnan looked as if he wanted to protest, to push himself up from the bed, but Athos could see he had no real strength. The Gascon finally gave a nod, shoulders slumping with defeat, but understanding filling his gaze. Aramis spared a moment to pull the blanket over him and slide a hand softly through the boy's hair. He was asleep before the door closed behind his departing friends.

* * *

 _ **A/N:**_ _D'Artagnan's symptoms are my description of him going into shock. I don't think that was a term used in 1630, so I chose to describe it rather than name it. It would be something Aramis, and many soldiers probably, would be familiar with if they were involved with tending wounded men. The treatment isn't exactly right by modern standards as we probably know more about the systemic causes of shock than they did. Just like we would not give wine to a concussed person either, but the Musketeers' relationship with wine is also very different than ours! I know a lot more about imaginary Musketeers than I do about anything medical, so to those who know better, pardon my inaccuracies._


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: Thank you much for taking the time to favorite, follow and leave reviews! To the guests I can't respond to directly, please know that I appreciate your thoughtful comments and am so glad to know you are enjoying the story. My gratitude as always to Issai for her careful beta-reading skills. I own nothing except the mistakes._

* * *

They rode out of the Garrison almost exactly four hours after they had arrived earlier in the morning. The sun was at its zenith and could it have reached below the brims of their low-slung hats it would have shown grim faces and ice cold eyes to any who looked. Aramis had provisioned them for an overnight stay, as well as stocked their ammunition and powder, and of course, medical supplies. He was still angry at Treville for not sending more men with them, but Athos knew he would cool down about that by the time they reached St. Martens vineyard. Back on the horses, their bodies remembered that they were saddle-weary, but each of them were used to enduring far greater discomfort than that. They agreed they would press hard and make the journey in two hours.

Athos had briefed the Captain while Aramis made preparations for their ride. There was scant little information to go on, but Treville agreed it was their only lead at this point. No other ransom notes or demands had appeared. That would have made this easier. Treville pulled one of his many maps out from under a pile of papers on his desk and spread it before Athos. Together they poured over it, looking for Saint Martens and the best route for two expert riders to take. There was a track through a less populated area that would easy cut a few miles off their journey. It was worth the risk of the rougher road to get there that much sooner.

Also scrawled on this map were the names of landowners and gentry, comtes and dukes, who controlled the lands in this region. The vineyards of _Saint Martin_ were in the boundaries of the Comte de Varade an agricultural region that mostly provided grain to Paris. The vineyard was not a significant holding but still was in the Comte's jurisdiction. Treville had warned him that they would have to proceed cautiously. There was not enough evidence – any evidence actually – to justify sending an armed party of Musketeers into the Comte's lands to conduct a search. Athos and Aramis would have to go alone and tread carefully. Treville trusted these men, perhaps above all others, but in this case, when it was one of their own who was missing, he had his doubts about their ability to remain in control of their emotions. Yet there was no other choice – the men would not stand by to let someone else pursue this lead, and in truth, they were his best. He sent them on their way, with multiple admonishments to be careful – and to bring Porthos home.

They pushed hard on the journey, pacing the horses back and forth between trots and canters. The animals too were tired, but they were battle-trained and bred to endurance, just like their riders. They could manage this. The pace allowed them no time to talk, but little needed to be said between them. Any time Athos pulled alongside Aramis, the look on the marksman's face was enough to let him know his thoughts. His jaw was tight, his eyes flashed dark and deadly, and his focus intense. Athos knew that black moods were usually his domain, but when one of their own was in trouble or distress, Aramis it turned out was the one prone to darkness.

Athos wondered about this as he rode. Aramis was a man of faith, of optimism, of an unquenchable spirit that rarely allowed himself the luxury of despair. His passion for life was intense and his heart beat mightily for those he loved. He loved easily, but it did not mean it was not honestly. Athos could not help but smile over the many loves of Aramis. He was sincere each time but rarely did his love move past the earliest stages of exploration, discovery and pleasure. He seemed to choose to love women who were encumbered, who could not offer a lasting relationship to him, even if they both desired it. He loved the wives and mistresses of wealthy and powerful men, the daughters who were already betrothed, the widowed women of the nobility who would not forfeit their lands back to the hands of another husband. He knew heartaches well, as these pairings would end time and time again, but he never closed his heart to finding his next companion.

Athos was the exact opposite. There had been few women who even sparked his interest, but once he found her, she became his world. Their love grew and deepened, found purchase in both the dark and light places, and parts of his soul became lost in hers. Life without her became inconceivable, and then in an instant of madness and murder, life with her became unbearable. Athos did not want to dwell on Anne, and with a practiced mind pushed thoughts of her aside, to some black and tormented place where she was allowed to exist in his heart. Only when he had enough wine did he have the courage to summon her fully to his mind, and then he needed even more to banish her again. Aramis, for all his loves and losses, joys and regrets, had never had a love that so scarred his heart that it changed the nature of its very beating. His loves existed in sunlight and he protected them from the shadows.

It was his comrades, first Athos and Porthos, and now D'Artagnan, who Aramis gave his dark side to. They were there through battles, through pain, through death. It was his brothers-in-arms who reached out to him in the darkness after Savoy, who held him when he wept, woke him from his nightmares, tended to his healing. They knew his failings, his guilt, his mistakes as he knew their scars, their weaknesses, their fears. Their brotherhood was built in the dark places that most men had to walk alone, but these men, they had found companionship in the wounds they stitched closed on each other's bodies, the agonies they endured to spare the suffering of another, and the sorrow they shared at the death they dealt out.

Athos at least had the memory of a woman who had loved his good and his bad. D'Artagnan came from a core of love so strong in his father, that he had not learned yet that the heart could not always heal the soul. Porthos, despite the roughest upbringing of all, had learned to love in a world full of misery. There was no partition of joy and sorrow in the Court of Miracles. Love bore both at the same time. Of all of them, it was Aramis who had the least anchor to the deepest loves. His comrades, now his brothers, were the only source of an unconditional love that embraced the dark inside his soul. A love so strong that blood, steel and death could not divide it. This was the rage in Aramis, Athos finally realized, it was the deepest expression of love that his friend could muster. This made him deadly and ruthless when those he loved were threatened, perhaps even more so than the cold fire that ran in Athos's veins. Athos looked at Aramis riding low across his horse in front of him and suddenly felt a need to protect him, to make sure that his heart never had to suffer the same losses that he had been forced to endure. They would find Porthos and none of them would have to bear any more despair than that which already marked them as brothers.

* * *

They pulled up their horses just as the vineyards came into sight. They stopped before a small bridge that led across a stream and took the opportunity to rest the horses. The beasts' sides were heaving from the effort of their long ride, but the hardy animals were far from spent. The men refreshed themselves as well, taking a deep drink of the cool water and refilling their canteens. They stretched legs and backs stiff from hours of riding. Aramis handed Athos a heel of brown bread and some hard cheese from the provisions he had packed. It had been hours since they last ate and this might be their only opportunity for a longer while yet. Eating was pragmatic, as necessary as having dry powder and a sharp blade. They had to be ready to function at their best, come what may.

They stood under the shade of a tree while the horses had their way with the sweet, soft grass at the edge of the stream. The day was warm but the breeze cool and it would have been a peaceful respite if not for the circumstances of their travel.

"We'll head through the vineyard first," Athos broke the silence, outlining his plan, "but I have a feeling we are going to find our answers at the chateau."

"Why so?" Aramis asked, not looking up from the apple he was slicing and eating off the blade of his dagger.

"This place is not wealthy," Athos said matter-of-factly, gesturing to the countryside they had been riding through, "The only one with enough coin to have funded that many skilled men on a campaign into Paris is going to be that house."

Aramis wrinkled his brow, "But they are not likely to be holding him there."

"I know," Athos continued, "but the truth is they could have him anywhere here. It's too much land for two men to search without at least some better clue as to where to start. We'll talk to everyone on that damned estate if we have to."

Aramis was silent for a while, considering Athos's words. "Alright," he nodded his agreement, "We go fishing with the Comte." He looked over at Athos and gave him a wry smile.

"We'll find him," Athos said, his voice steady and confident.

Aramis squinted against the sun, his expression unreadable. "I know we will," Aramis finally replied, gripping Athos by the forearm. The older musketeer returned the grip. They stood a moment like that, then Athos pulled Aramis slightly forward, pressing their shoulders together and giving Aramis a light clap on the back. Aramis hissed softly through clenched teeth at the contact to his tender shoulder. Athos released him from their half embrace, but held on to Aramis's arm, looking the marksman in the eye.

"Your shoulder?" he asked, Athos's arched eyebrow putting a lot more into the question.

"Is there nothing that gets by you?" Aramis said incredulously.

"Nothing," Athos deadpanned, still waiting for a more helpful response.

Aramis gave his friend a soft smile, "Your concern is appreciated, but unwarranted. Just bruised and nothing more." Athos remained unmoving, the eyebrow still enquiring. "I'm fine, _mon ami,_ " Aramis reassured, "When it stiffens up tomorrow," he added, "then you may duly fuss over me."

"Hmmm," was Athos's only response, indicating he was not convinced that Aramis spoke the truth, but he released his grip on the marksman's arm anyway. There was work to do and he did trust Aramis enough to know that he would not lie to him if the injury truly hampered him. They mounted their horses and wheeled them toward the bridge, ready to bring their brother home.

* * *

Athos was right about the vineyards bearing no fruit to their search. Only a few buildings were there – a barracks where the workers were housed, a caretaker's cottage, a large barn for their animals and an even larger storage building filled with a mix of full and empty crates of grapes. The storage area held the most promise for someone to be hidden inside, but a thorough search gave no sign that anyone had been held there. The workers were friendly and more than willing to let the Musketeers search for the escaped convict that might be hiding on the land. Athos and Aramis mounted up and took their horses at a slow trot up to the Comte's chateau.

As they passed through the gates and up the long roadway to the manor house, they both noticed the impeccable gardens. They spotted at least half a dozen gardeners and as many grounds men working on planting, sculpting and pruning everything from a rose garden to a hedge maze. The men exchanged glances, there was great wealth here to afford grounds that rivaled those of the Louvre. More wealth than the farms and vineyard should be able to provide. Athos wondered just what the Comte did to earn his money. As they approached the house, they spotted several liveried servants lining the staircase. Apparently, their arrival in the fields had been noted to the Comte. The men wore pistols at their sides, and rapiers. This brought another glance between Athos and Aramis, both of them feeling their suspicions rise at the display of wealth and power. Who was this Comte?

The courtyard was lively, with servants coming and going, and a girl in a white dress swinging on a plank swing festooned with colorful ribbons, some of the children from the house clustered around her and laughing. Athos made a quick decision but was confident Aramis would go along with it. He pulled up his horse and spoke to the lead butler before dismounting.

"I am Athos of the King's Musketeers," he said with a voice full of command and gentility, "I've come to speak to your master on urgent business from the capital." This earned him a nod and a gesture to move up the staircase to the house. "We've had a long journey," he continued, "May my man water and curry the horses while he waits for me?" He heard a small intake of breath from Aramis that might have been a snort of laughter.

"By all means," the butler offered solemnly, "One of the stable boys can assist him," and he gestured to one of the liveried servants to take Aramis off in the direction of the stables. Athos dismounted and handed his reins up to Aramis. They exchanged nothing but a glance, but Athos knew that Aramis would use this time to question the people outside while he handled things with the Comte.

What Athos did not expect was that the Comte was actually a Cometess. She received him in a formal sitting room just off the entrance hall. Yellow silk dress arranged prettily on the blue brocade settee she had positioned herself on, she had a mop of blond curls piled high on her head. Her low-cut dress showed an ample bosom and her skirts were pulled up just enough to reveal a narrow foot and a slim ankle ensconced in a pair of white kid boots. She was not as old as he expected, although to be honest he didn't know what to expect really. Whoever owned this house, would have to have worked hard to build up the income to support it. He knew they could not be hereditary nobles, he had to memorize those lists as a boy and the Comte de Varade was not among them. It was likely though he had been titled by the King, a wealthy merchant who found himself in Louis's favor.

"Madame," Athos took his hat off and made a small, formal bow, "I am Athos of the Kings' Musketeers and I am here on urgent business from Paris." She took this in with a cock of her head as if trying to make sense of the words, but her blue eyes remained wide and unaffected.

"Hmm," she let out a little breath between tight lips, "I don't really like Musketeers," she said with a small smile and a wrinkle of her nose.

"Begging your pardon then, for the intrusion," Athos now gave a small nod of apology, "but I am searching for a missing man and I am hoping you might be of assistance."

"A missing man?" she said with a smile, "why on earth would he be here," and she looked around as if she might find him in this very room.

"Madame, might your husband be at home," Athos tried another tactic.

"My husband?" she said, looking incredulous, "Why of course he is not here! Don't you Musketeers keep track?"

"Keep track?" Athos questioned, raising his eyebrows in confusion.

"Well you have him, don't you?" she said with a shrill laugh. She started to fidget with the white lace trimming the top of her bodice, "I haven't laid eyes on him in five years."

"Madame," Athos approached her, hat in his hand, "I am new to the regiment. Would you tell me please what happened to your husband?" Athos hoped his disassociation with the regiment might soften her opinion of him. She considered him a moment, as he stood contritely before her and then gestured for him to take a chair, a flirtatious flutter of her eyelashes punctuating her change of attitude toward him. He smiled graciously as he pulled one up before the settee, sparing a moment to make a mental note that next time, Aramis was going in the house.

"My husband Phillipe was a merchant. Silk, spices, ivory, everything," she started, "He sailed with Pierre Belain and brought back the first shipment of sugar cane from _Saint-Pierre_. It wasn't yet a colony, but the cargo was valuable and we did well. During his third voyage, the King declared a tariff and when he docked, he could not afford to pay," she slipped a fan from her pocket and opened it, flapping it lightly to make a breeze before continuing, "The King was wretched with those who could not pay, sent soldiers into the harbor to seize the goods and the ship. We lost everything." She stopped a moment, fanning herself over her bosom, an obvious ploy to direct Athos's gaze to the flesh peeking from above her corset. Athos raised his eyebrows at her gesture, but his thoughts were on her story. He remembered it was the Cardinal's red guards, not the King's Musketeers, who had enforced the strict trade policies. It seemed in the end though, the Cardinal had benefited, eventually forming his own trading company with ties to _Saint-Pierre_.

"What happened then," Athos urged her to continue but used a tone better suited for the bedroom.

"Well, Phillipe and some of the other merchants tried to petition the King, but it was all misconstrued," she replied, placing a look of false contriteness over her face, "and they ended up in having to flee Paris because the King thought they were defying him or something. Something about revolt or treason or . . . oh I don't know," she paused, trying to remember the details lost to her, "but whatever it was the King sent the Musketeers to round up Phillipe and his friends. They threw them in the _Chatelet_!" she looked at him, incredulous that this could have happened to her husband, "I mean really, can you imagine Phillipe in there?" she giggled, "He's just useless without Robert to get him up in the morning!" she chuckled to herself as she found this idea very funny.

"Is he still in prison then?" Athos prompted.

"Goodness no," the Countess answered, "the Cardinal intervened and commuted their sentences to 10 years indentured servitude in Saint-Pierre. He's been on that island ever since." She abruptly snapped the fan shut and put it back in her pocket. "Do you realize, that because of the Musketeers who chased him down, he has not seen his wife or children in five years time, and won't still for five years to come." She frowned at him now, "You see, we have good reason to dislike Musketeers here. But perhaps, you could earn my forgiveness," she said coyly, leaning over to place a hand on his knee.

Athos shifted slightly in his chair. He wanted to point out that her husband had advocated treason by organizing a band of merchants to protest the King's tariff. He remembered the incident, the Cardinal choosing to have the King send his Musketeers to round up the recalcitrant traders from all over France. He did not remember Phillipe de Varade, but that only meant he had not been one of the men assigned to him to retrieve.

"Do you know how difficult it is to manage a farm and a vineyard on your own with no husband?" she pouted at Athos, "This has been a terrible time for me. We are always on the edge of disaster."

Athos's eyes rounded in surprise. There was certainly no sign of financial distress here. Something was not adding up. The lavish lifestyle this woman was holding could not be afforded on the income from the farm and vineyard. There had to be more to the tale. "Surely, you must have another source of income?" Athos asked, gently removing her hand and standing up.

"My son manages the winery and my daughter helps with the imports and exports. We do well enough, I suppose, but that does not replace my husband in this household, now does it?" Now that he had rejected her advance, she seemed to be getting agitated, "All of this is painful to discuss, and with a Musketeer nonetheless. You said you were looking for a man?" Athos nodded in the affirmative, "Well go find him then! Look about, I don't care. Then take yourself off these lands. They are a sovereign gift from the King and I won't have you here a minute longer than necessary," and with that, she rose up and stalked out of the room.

Athos had to consider that last statement. He doubted that the King would grant a land title to a man he had banished to the French West Indies as an indentured servant. This woman and her family may be holding on to a title, but it was definitely one they no longer should have claim to. At least he had learned there was reason to hate Musketeers here, and he wondered if Porthos had been the one to round up Comte de Varade. He stood and a servant was waiting to escort him on his search through the house.


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: Thank you for continuing to follow and review - I hope I got to answer everyone and to the guests that I could not, thank you for letting me know you are enjoying the story. Honestly makes my day. Much appreciation for the helpful suggestions to fix my poor french! My thanks as always to Issai for beta-reading and keeping me honest and true. Errors I can blame on no one but myself._

* * *

Aramis was having no luck with the workers in the yard. The stable boy said no one but family had been back and forth for weeks. The last time he saw a big cart of wine was the week before Christmas when the family hosted a large party. He was more than happy to show Aramis the stables and coach house. The family had two open carriages and a closed one and all were in their proper places. The horses in the barn were all fresh, none had been ridden out that morning. Two stalls were empty and the boy explained they belonged to his Master and Mistress, the elder children of the Comtess. They were visiting an Aunt in Normandie and were not expected back for at least a fortnight themselves.

He chatted up a lovely, plump scullery maid and followed her back to the summer kitchen. He pilfered a fresh scone and followed her down to the root cellar. It was dry and cool and definitely no one was hiding in it. The only crime here was the scullery maid choosing to steal a kiss before she ran upstairs, flushed and giggling. Aramis chose to retreat before the cook came looking for him.

He talked to one of the gardeners and followed him into the shed. No one remembered a large cart or delivery, no one seemed worried that he was poking around. The futility of all this was grating on his nerves but there was no other course of action he could come up with. There had to be something here. If they left empty handed, they left with no possible idea of where to look next. Frustrated, Aramis moved to stand under the shade tree, leaning his back against the trunk and taking his hat off to fan himself. He ran a hand through his damp, tangled hair and tried to calm his mind. Where else could he look? Who could he ask?

"Are you a soldier?" a small voice asked. Aramis looked down to see the girl who had been on the swing standing before him. She was in a white dress with pink satin ribbons and blonde curls framed her oval face. Blue eyes stared up at him with curiosity but he didn't sense that she had any fear. She looked to be about 9 years old.

"I'm not just a soldier," Aramis said with a warm smile. He stepped away from the tree and gave her a deep flourishing bow, "I am the King's Musketeer Aramis at your service, Mademoiselle," and he flashed her a charming smile.

"Oh!" she said, her eyes going wide, "Mama does not like Musketeers. I'm not sure if I should talk with you."

"I promise," Aramis said with a smile, "I'm a very friendly Musketeer," he crouched down so that he could look her in the eye, "Mademoiselle, if I may be so bold, that is a very pretty dress you have on." The girl grinned, immediately forgetting any issues she had with talking to Musketeers.

"Thank you, Monsieur Aramis," she said politely and gave a little curtsey, "My Papa sent the fabric for it from his island. It was made for me for my birthday last month."

"It's lovely and the pink ribbons suit you," Aramis said, "This must be a very beautiful island to have fabric such as that," Aramis added, hoping to encourage the conversation in a direction that could prove helpful. The girl was more than happy to follow his prompting.

"Oh, no, Monsieur," the girl said earnestly, "it is a very terrible island. We are never allowed to go there. It is hot and lonely and there are beasts in the woods and the natives have uprisings and kill you with a dart in the night!" she put her hands together like they were a tube and blew threw them, mimicking a blow gun. "I have one you know," she said proudly, "Papa sent it from the island for Benoit, but he has grown out of it and now it is mine."

Aramis smiled at her story. This seemed like a child's fancy, perhaps a serial novel that had been read to her. He steered her back to her father, "So is your father here now?" he asked.

"No," she said solemnly, "He may never leave the island by order of the King himself," she said with all seriousness. Now he was certain this was a fairy story.

"So, Benoit is your older brother then?" Aramis asked her, and she nodded vigorously, "I would love to meet him," he smiled to her.

"Benoit is away with Celeste, my sister," the girl replied, "they have a very important delivery to the winery. I'm not supposed to talk about it actually," she whispered conspiratorially, "It's family business," she added. The stable boy had told him the two were visiting family in Normandy. Was everything this girl said made up? Aramis stood up and pursed his lips. There had to be another place to search next.

"Monsieur," the girl said, tugging at his sleeve, "do you want to see my slave babies?"

"Your . . . slave babies?" Aramis repeated, convinced he could not have heard that right.

"Yes!" she said with a big grin and knelt in the grass. She started pulling figurines from her pocket and placing them in a little line before her. Aramis knelt again and looked at the row of small dolls. There were six, each about three inches high and they appeared to be carved from ebony. The faces had exaggerated hips and curly hair and their lips were lacquered a bright read. They wore bits of colorful clothing, the women bare breasted but with yellow and red fabric wrapped around their waists, the men with straw pants. One had a kerchief on his head and some had tiny gold hoop earrings dangling from their small lobes. Aramis picked one up, the woodworking was exquisite. These were expensive trinkets from an exotic port. He noticed a mark on the chest of the figure he was holding. It looked like an upside-down letter Y.

"What's this?" he asked the girl.

"That's our mark," she explained, "it's on all of our horses, the milk cows, the sheep and the slaves."

Aramis schooled his mouth into a curious smile and hoped the girl would not see the disgust growing in his eyes. "You have slaves here?" he asked her sweetly.

"Of course not!" she chided him, "They are only with father on the island. They pick the sugar, load the ships and they carved me my slave babies," she said. She carefully picked up her dolls and slipped them back in her pocket. She considered the Musketeer a moment. "Monsieur Musketeer," she whispered to him, "Do the ladies at court truly give tokens to their favorites for them to carry in battle?"

The girl seemed to shift direction like a skiff in a breeze. Turning his thoughts away from the horrible little dolls, Aramis gave her a nod, "Yes, Mademoiselle," he replied with mock sincerity, "They most certainly do." This pleased the girl and she stood up, putting her shoulders back and assuming what could only be her version of a Princess's countenance.

"Monsieur Musketeer," she said formally, "I give you my token and wish you to be my champion," She held out her hand to him, something clenched in her fist, "But you can't tell my mother," she added in a conspiratorial whisper, "She would not like it."

Aramis stood and gave her a deep bow. "I am honored, Mademoiselle," he said softly, and extended his hand to hers, "I humbly accept." She beamed down at him and placed a large coin in his hand. Aramis again had to school his features, the girl had passed him a tin coin, a risqué picture of a lady stamped on its face, "This is quite unusual, Milady," Aramis said, a smile quirking at his lips, "Where did it come from?"

"From Benoit," she said leaning in to whisper to Aramis, "I nicked it from his pockets when he said he had hidden the sweets," she arched her eyebrows, clearly proud of her thievery.

Aramis carefully slipped the coin into his doublet and considered what gift he could give her in return. He had very few options, but then remembered he had a handkerchief tucked in his belt. He pulled out the folded square and presented it to her with a formal bow of his head. She reached to take the soft cloth and he noticed the monogram "AGS." He considered a moment if it was a treasured token of a past love, and realized no, it was just one of many handkerchiefs pressed on him by ladies longing for his attention. It was a gift he could easily part with. The girl graciously took the fine cloth and smoothed it to her face.

"Why thank you, Monsieur Musketeer," she smiled. "I have to go show Genevieve!" and she ran off toward the rose gardens.

Aramis watched her scamper off, the forced smile slipping from his face. He was disturbed by his conversation with her and was trying to sort fact from fiction. Those carved figures clearly came by way of a ship from the West Indies or New France and her glib talk of slaves and her family brand didn't seem like something from a book. And where were her brother and sister really? There was something not right here. He hoped Athos was having better luck.

* * *

They finished searching the grounds and outbuildings within the remainder of an hour, no one questioning their search for an escaped prisoner and no one denying them access to any area of the estate. As they remounted their horses, the sun was lower now, pushing toward the edge of the horizon. It was questionable if they could get back to Paris before dark, but there was no question that of course they would go anyway. They allowed their horses a slow walk back towards the gate of the Chateau while they quietly conversed. They would not be able to do so once they started the hard ride home.

As Aramis finished relating his encounter with the girl, Athos shook his head, "If the Comte was still a trader, I could understand the wealth here," he said, "But he is an indentured servant to the crown. How can they manage this lavish lifestyle?"

"The girl seems convinced her father owns slaves," Aramis said grimly, "She spoke of it as if it was nothing. Less important than the ribbons in her dress. That is not from some story, this is how she was raised."

"We need to get back to Paris," Athos was tight-lipped and his tone bore no invitation for dissension, "We have to find out what happened between the Comte and the Musketeers. Every instinct tells me Porthos has to have been in the middle of that."

"But if the Comte is an indentured servant in the West Indies how can he be involved?" Aramis asked, frustration leaching into his voice.

Athos caught Aramis's eye and shared a thin, joyless smile. "Criminals are pardoned all the time," he answered, "We need Treville and access to the mission reports. And we need to find out where the Comte is now."

Aramis was silent, but Athos could see the tension in his clenched jaw. He pursed his lips as he considered what to say. Finally, Aramis looked over at him, his dark eyes smoldering in suppressed rage, "Athos, we will not find him in Paris."

Athos took a deep breath, and placed a hand on Aramis's shoulder, "I know, my friend," he said quietly, "I know. But we will know the next place to look," he squeezed Aramis's shoulder, "I swear to you, we will find him and we will bring him home." Aramis let out a deep exhale and nodded his head in agreement, but Athos knew his friend wanted to say more. He knew Aramis was choosing to hold on to the reassurance he had offered rather than focus on truth – the situation was dire. The information they had to go on was slim and mostly conjecture. There was no reason to think their leads wouldn't turn out to be dead ends. There was no evidence to even support that Porthos was carried off in a wine cart, and even if he was, who is to say it wasn't stolen and had nothing to do with the Comte deVarade. Time was slipping away as they chased butterflies in the breeze. The odds of finding Porthos alive, let alone at all, were shrinking. This was a bet not even Porthos would make. Aramis may have refused to voice his despair, but Athos knew it was growing, gnawing a ragged hole in his heart.

There was no more time for talking. They kicked their horses to a cantor and raced hard against the setting sun toward Paris.

* * *

 _He was still. On his back. Bare skin on cool ground. But hot, too hot._

 _A breeze carrying the scent of new cut hay and honeysuckle stroked his cheek and chest in a feeble attempt to soothe him._

 _The soft earth was a source of strength, of comfort. He was here. He was alive. The ache in his body reminded him of that. It was a dull, deep pain that smoldered like embers in his flesh, remains of the fires that had seared him before._

 _Before. What had happened before? His mind could not hold the images but there were hands, a needle, his own blood soaking his braes. Before that, a fight. Blood there too. And desperation. His brothers . . . he had fallen alone. No one by his side. He scrunched his brow trying to remember. Why was he alone?_

 _His mind pushed him to consciousness, or at least a loose connection to something outside of himself. He forced gritty eyelids open and the world spun darkly across his gaze. His stomach responded with a twist, knotting itself in his gut and forcing him to roll to his side and gag on the bitter bile coming up in his throat. The ache in his side pulsed in agony as his stomach emptied but the dry heaves continued. He remembered – he had been sliced and then sewn. Why was he alive? Why was he alone?_

 _The riot in his stomach ceased and he rolled again onto his back. He breathed heavily, sucking in air across a dry and ravaged throat. He wanted to close his eyes again, try to escape the pain growing now in his head and side. Escape. He remembered he was not safe. He had to leave but had no strength yet to try to move again._

 _Soft clothes rustled beside him, a gentle hand behind his head raised it from the ground. He had no will to protest, but then he didn't want to as cool water trickled through his parched lips. He drank greedily until the water skin was pulled away and his head placed gently on the ground again. A cool, wet cloth passed over his brow and cheek, driving some of the hotness from his skin. He thought of his brothers, but as his eyes finally gained focus it was a woman's hands who wrung the cloth. She passed it over his chest several times, drawing the heat of fever from his aching body. He remembered the woman. His mother? Flea? No . . . she'd sewn his wound but not as a lover would. But now the hands were kind, the movements meant to soothe. Where was he? He felt panic start to rise with the growing pain. As the fire flared in his side he found his mental focus was also sharpening. He was attacked, wounded and now held. But no bonds had his wrists now. He needed to focus on escape. From where? Where was he?_

 _The woman shifted away from him and he tried to roll over again, causing a searing fire from hip to arm and a loud groan was wrenched from between his clenched teeth. She was there again immediately, pressing him back to the ground with an ease that should not have been possible. Her hand lifted his head again and a cup was pressed to his lips. He could smell the bitterness of it, but had little strength to or will to resist the liquid that promised to soothe his still dry throat._

 _"It's for pain," the woman said, "drink it or I will have to force you."_

 _He obeyed. He had little choice as his parched mouth begged for the moisture even if the draught was bitter on his tongue. Once his mouth was open, it took little for her to pour the cup rapidly, forcing him to swallow in big gulps. When it was done, she laid his head back down, not ungently, and left his side again. He considered again trying to leave, but the medicine was swift. Already the pain in his side and head were receding from the fierce agony they had become to the dull, deep ache of when he had first awoken. His arms and legs felt leaden as if they were sinking into the earth itself. Above him, he saw bright stars in a clear night sky. He fought to keep his eyes open to the sight as they started to slowly spiral. He was in a field he finally realized. Shirtless and on his back. Cool, soft earth pulling the heat from his fevered body. He felt desperately alone beneath the vast canopy of the universe whirling above him._

 _Something fell across his bare chest, pulled up with delicate hands to rest beneath his chin. It was coarse and prevented the chilling air from clinging to his skin. "Can't have you dying on us," the woman said softly, "There is so much more to come." She patted his leg like one might a dog and left him. He was unfettered and alone, and yet had no will to leave. He felt sleep claiming him and now sorrow too. Why was he alone? Where were his brothers? As he slid back into unconsciousness, a tear slipped from beneath his lashes._


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: Thank you to everyone who continues to follow this epic tale! I appreciate your comments and thank you to those guests I can't respond to personally. My gratitude as always to Issai who works so hard to make these words better with her thoughtful beta-reading. The mistakes that remain are all my own doing._

* * *

It took well over four hours to get back to the Garrison. After the sun set, they had to drop their pace, picking their way carefully by the light of the rising moon. It was late and they were tired from the saddle. Aramis roused the stable boys to take care of the horses while Athos went immediately to Treville's office to report their findings and seek his guidance.

Aramis pulled the tack and gear from the horses, the stable hands finally coming down to get their mounts curried, fed and watered. He gathered up their weapons and saddlebags, feeling the tired ache in thighs and shoulders from too many hours on his horse. His energy was flagging, along with his spirits. The long ride home had driven down hope for finding Porthos with every hoof beat that took them closer to Paris. Aramis was not one for despair, but the ache for his missing brother was a band tightening around his chest.

He stopped at the table where they often shared their meals and looked up to the light spilling from Treville's office window. He felt too weary to move and not sure where to go next anyway. All hope they had now lay in that room, with Treville's maps, records and keen memory, and Athos's ability to form a strategy from a thread. He tried to find a prayer, but nothing came from his lips but _please. Please,_ he repeated again, _please._ He closed his eyes against the tears he felt edging to the surface, squinting them tight and drawing a ragged breath. Of all the prayers he had ever uttered, there was none more heartfelt than this. He had no other words to give, just an aching heart to offer up in exchange for a miracle.

He let his head drop, and now tears did fall beneath the dark shelter of his broad-brimmed hat. He still held their gear, guns and blades, ammunition and powder, and he clutched these tighter to his chest. For all the wrongs these weapons had righted, justice they had served, innocents they had avenged, for all of that, it was all useless to them without a clear enemy to fight.

Aramis did not know how long he stood there, lost in a prayer for hope, but a familiar step roused him and a comforting arm slipped across his shoulders. He drew a deep breath, and then another as the hand at his shoulder tightened in reassurance and solidarity. Aramis turned his head to meet Athos's gaze, for he had known the touch of his brother immediately, his wet eyes shining in the moonlight. Athos for his part could not seem to meet Aramis's eyes and dropped his gaze away, lightly shaking his head. _No_ he seemed to say _no, I cannot go there_ but his arm tightened across Aramis's back assuring him he was with him nonetheless. They stood together for a few moments, each drawing strength from the other.

"C'mon," Athos finally said, giving his friend a small shake, "I have news, and I am hungry."

Aramis for his part nodded, and sighed, straightening up and letting out a long exhale through pursed lips. He felt foolish at his own behavior, at his weakness for giving in to despair. If Athos had news, it meant he had a plan. He should have had faith.

Athos clapped Aramis once on the back before letting him go. "I'll get us something to eat," he said quietly, "and meet you in your rooms." He started off, then stopped and turned back, "Oh, and Flea is there. She's been tending D'Artagnan while we were gone."

Aramis felt a flush of shame warm his cheeks as he started back to his rooms. In all his worry about Porthos, he had been distracted enough to not think immediately to D'Artagnan when they returned to the Garrison. Not that he had forgotten, but rather he had let hopeless overtake him so as not to consider the brother who was still at his side. He shook his head and bit into his resolve. He would not so easily abandon his faith as this. Faith in his brothers, faith in God, faith in himself.

Aramis rapped on the door before quietly opening it. The candle on the table was lit, its soft flickering light dancing along the walls. Flea was seated at the table, her head cradled in her hands. She looked up as Aramis slipped in the door. Behind her, Aramis could see the form of a body under the blankets of his bed, soft breathing revealing a deep and undisturbed sleep. Aramis offered Flea a reassuring smile and gestured for her to remain seated. He moved to the foot of the bed, depositing his weapons and gear to the pegs along the wall, then to the side of the bed, observing his companion sleeping soundly. He gently smoothed D'Artagnan's unruly black hair from his face, happy to find his skin cool and his features undisturbed by pain. Aramis pulled the blanket up over D'Artagnan's shoulder, noting that the bandage looked fresh. He lit the lantern on the mantel to add to the soft light in the room and then took a seat in front of Flea.

She looked tired, the lines of worry that etched her face amplified by the shadows from the candle light. Her eyes were red and puffy, clearly she had spent much of the day weeping. Aramis could not blame her for it, for a moment ago, he had wept too. He did not have to tell her that they had not found Porthos – he had seen her face fall when he entered the room alone. It was clear she loved him. Loved him as deeply and firmly as they did. This made her a sister of some kind, Aramis decided, and his heart went out to her.

"Thank you," he said quietly, "For seeing after D'Artagnan. He seems much improved from when we left."

"No need for thanks," she replied with a thin smile, "Was the least I could do. I just had to do _something_. I feel so useless. I just want him home," she choked back a small sob. Aramis reached across the table and took her hand.

"It's alright," he said, voice full of warmth and comfort, "We will find him. We'll bring him home," he found a smile for her, "You must believe that. You mustn't lose faith." Aramis was not sure then if his words were for her or for himself. But living in hope had to be better than the alternative.

"That's what he said," Flea said with a nod to D'Artagnan, "That I must have faith in Musketeers." She smiled then, as if she was trying to believe the words as she said them.

Aramis ran a hand over his eyes. Even their youngest seemed to have more faith than he did. Aramis tried again to push aside the feelings of dread and despair that threatened to overwhelm him. Athos had learned something, he had a plan. And there was no force on earth that could stop the king's musketeers if they were hell bent on doing something. He took a deep breath and told himself yet again that it would be alright. He gave Flea's hand a small squeeze before letting it go and softly filling her in on the day's events in a quiet voice that he hoped would not disturb his sleeping companion.

As he shared what they had found with Flea, Aramis carefully watched her face as hope warred with despair in her large grey eyes. But as he told her the part about the young girl and her strange carved figurines, something in Flea's demeanor changed. She straightened up in the chair and hard lines of anger gathered across her face.

"What is it?" Aramis asked, "You know something," he knew his tone was more harsh than he intended, but his patience was worn and he needed something, anything to grasp on to.

"I don't know if this will help," she said cautiously, "but I do know who the traitor in the court is." She shook her head in frustration, "I should have figured it out sooner. I'm such a fool."

"Please, Madame," Aramis encouraged politely but his dark eyes flashed dangerously, "What do you know?

"Jehan. That little bastard," Flea said through tight lips. Aramis could hear the fury in her voice, "He was the one who led D'Artagnan off to LaManage. He's probably the one who LaManage sent to bring you to D'Artagnan. And I know now he must be the one that betrayed Porthos." Aramis bit his tongue, waiting for her to compose herself. Her voice remained quiet, not wanting to wake the injured man in the room, but her tone was intense. "He has two carved figures, similar to what you describe. They are called panthers, I think, some kind of black cat. He said he stole them, from a rich merchant just back from the West Indies. That is too much coincidence that here again carvings from the islands turn up in this story."

Aramis's lips curled in an appreciative smile and he gave Flea an encouraging nod. The fierce fire in her eyes expressed great intelligence. Again he found admiration for this woman and again his understanding for the love Porthos bore her deepened. She was as clever and strategic as she was lovely. They were a strong match.

A soft rap at the door ended the conversation. Aramis opened it to let in Athos bearing a tray with bowls, a small stew pot and some bread. He set them down on the table as he arched an inquisitive eyebrow in Aramis's general direction.

Either the activity in the room or the smell of food began to penetrate the awareness of their sleeping companion. A groan came from under the bedclothes and Athos sent a more pointed look that Aramis easily interpreted as a question about D'Artagnan's health. He answered with a shrug that said he wasn't worried, but he needed to check. Their silent communication of gesture, sigh and nods baffled most people, but to them it was natural as breathing. Athos turned his attention to organizing the table and Aramis made his way to the bed, sitting on the edge and putting a hand to D'Artagnan's uninjured shoulder.

"D'Artagnan" Aramis called gently but insistently, giving his shoulder a little shake. He called his name again and was rewarded with another groan and two brown eyes fluttering open. D'Artagnan blinked blearily up at Aramis a few times until his eyes found their focus.

"You're back," he said, voice raspy from sleep, "Porthos . . . did you . . .?" D'Artagnan lost the rest of the sentence to a gasping wince as he apparently forgot about his ribs in his excitement to sit up and hear the news. Aramis shook his head grimly as he steadied the boy through the worst of the pain.

'No," Aramis said simply, and he watched hope slide into worry in his young friend's eyes. His one word had said everything. "But Athos has a plan," Aramis continued, letting confidence fill his voice. He glanced toward the swordsman spooning stew into a wooden bowl, and Athos gave a slight tip of the head in return. Aramis let a wicked smile play across his lips, "A good plan apparently," he added.

D'Artagnan nodded, pursing his lips. A set of conflicting emotions played across his face momentarily but finally he set a steady, hard gaze on Athos. "I'm part of it, yes?" D'Artagnan challenged.

"As if I have a choice in the matter," Athos replied coolly, but his lips held the hint of a smile, "Have something to eat, and we'll discuss it." D'Artagnan gave Athos an approving nod and Aramis couldn't help but smile at the impetuousness of his young friend. Not that any of them were any better though.

"Here, let's get you up," Aramis said, shifting from the bedside to help ease D'Artagnan into a sitting position. It was clear his side ached as he winced and instinctually wrapped an arm around his bare, bandaged torso. Aramis took the time to peel back the dressing at D'Artagnan's shoulder. There was no sign of unusual inflammation or bleeding. Flea had done a good job tending it in their absence. Replacing the bandages, Aramis slipped his hand under D'Artagnan's chin and gently pulled his head up to look into his eyes.

"How's your head?" he asked, as he watched to see if D'Artagnan could hold his focus.

"Fine," he replied, but the weariness in his tone belied his easy answer. Aramis turned D'Artagnan's face so that he could see the bruises along his jawline.

"I sincerely doubt you are fine," Aramis responded as he repositioned his hands to gently inspect the welts on D'Artagnan's head. The boy sucked in a gasp as Aramis's fingers poked on tender spots, "You've got to have a headache from that one," Aramis quipped, then gave his friend a gentle pat on the back of his neck. "I declare you fit enough for duty," Aramis raised an eyebrow and his face became stern, "If, and only if, you agree to take it gently and tell us if your condition changes."

"Of course," D'Artagnan said earnestly, widening his eyes and wearing a contrite expression.

"He's lying," Athos snorted.

"I know, "Aramis smiled down at their young recruit, "Now, what's the plan?" and just like that Aramis's manner changed from caring friend to battle hardened soldier. He was ready for business. He passed D'Artagnan a bowl of stew and sat next to him on the bed, his own bowl of food forgotten on the table.


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: Thank you for continuing to read and review this story. I appreciate the suggestions and hearing what you like to read. Plenty of angst coming up, but for now we need a plan! My constant gratitude to Issai for her beta-reading skills and keeping me honest and true. My mistakes still get the better of me._

* * *

Treville entered without knocking, rolls of parchment tucked under his arm and a bottle of brandy in his hand. He latched the door behind him, then gestured with a little wave for Athos to clear the food out of the way. Treville deposited the parchments on the small table and turned to retrieve the goblets perched on the edge of Aramis's mantle. He handed one to Flea, seated on a stool by the fire, and gave her a generous pour. Then he lined up the other cups on the table and poured the rest for each of them, taking the moment to observe his men.

They were tired. He could see the expression of it in the set of their bodies and the darkness around their eyes. They were worried. Aramis was unconsciously fiddling with the gold cross around his neck. Athos drumming a steady beat lightly on the tabletop with his fingers. They were angry. Aramis's eyes were black like cherry pits, gleaming as a steel blade etched in the candle light. Athos's jaw was clenched, his shoulders rigid with barely contained fury. D'Artagnan was sitting up, face set with a look of angry determination. It was hard to tell how much of that was his mind schooling his wounded body to obey or worry and fear about his missing friend.

"How are you?" Treville asked D'Artagnan as he passed him a cup.

"I'm fine," he said, slightly overemphasizing the word. In an effort to sound strong, D'Artagnan came off as cocky.

"Someday I'm going to ask one of you that question and I'm not going to get a horse shit answer" Treville spat back. D'Artagnan started to protest but Treville shot him his best withering glare and the young recruit clamped his mouth shut. Treville rifled through the scrolls on the table and picked up one with a red ribbon bearing Richelieu's seal. He handed it to Athos who slipped off the ribbon and opened the paper.

"Those are orders from five years ago," Treville explained, "regarding an uprising of Merchants against the King after a dispute over import tariffs. The Red Guard had been sent to the harbor to enforce the tariff and protests and fighting broke out. They really made a mess of it," Treville paused to sip his brandy, "What is unusual is that the Cardinal asked that the Musketeers, not the Red Guard, be sent to round up the nobles behind the uprising. Both regiments were relatively new at the time, but already there was competition and animosity between them. But apparently, the Cardinal specifically wanted Musketeers for this. Musketeers deemed discreet and who would handle things quickly and quietly so as not to bring further unrest that might jeopardize the rule of a young King."

Treville paused and selected another scroll, passing that to Athos, who had handed the first set of orders to Aramis and D'Artagnan. "This one is my order, selecting five of my best men to track down the nobles.

Athos raised a brow, "I see Aramis and I did not make your list," and he gave Treville an icy stare.

Treville rolled his eyes. "Because at the time Athos, the regiment was spread extremely thin. We had just lost a full company at Savoy. You," his glace fell to Aramis, "were still recovering from your injuries," Aramis hung his head at Treville's words, but he continued on, "And you," Treville's stern gaze returned to Athos, "were with a company in Languedoc chasing down allies of Gaston." He paused and Athos gave him a small, contrite nod, which Treville took as an apology for him questioning his judgment. "I didn't want to send Porthos or anyone else for that matter," Treville went on more softly, "but the King and Cardinal insisted. The Red Guards were not to be involved."

Aramis was reading the second parchment, D'Artagnan looking over his shoulder, "Porthos was sent to arrest Varade," he said, "This confirms it."

"And this," Athos said, picking up another parchment, "is his report. He found Varade at his estate, secured inside with a loaded pistol. Negotiations proved . . . unhelpful," Athos chose the word carefully, "He opened fire and Porthos was shot in the arm. Varade came out then to face him with a sword," Athos glanced up and smiled coldly at his companions, "Wounded, Porthos beat him anyway. Varade was humiliated. Porthos threw him over his saddle and rode him back to Paris like a sack of potatoes. He was locked up in the Chatelet and should not have seen the light of day again."

"Should not have," Aramis caught Athos's word, "but he did?" Treville did not like the dangerous shift in tone he heard in Aramis's voice. Treville picked up another parchment, this one tied with a green ribbon. He unfurled and handed it to Aramis, knowing the man was not going to be pleased with what he heard next.

"These are court records from six months later, outlining the disposition of prisoners to the Chatelet and the Bastille and transport orders for prisoners to other locations. Look at the third section." Aramis scanned down as Treville continued, "Varade's sentence is commuted to ten years indentured servitude and he is transported back to _Saint-Pierre_ under Richelieu's direct supervision."

" _Saint-Pierre_ ," Aramis said his jaw tight, "the same island where he was already an established merchant."

"That is not much of a punishment," D'Artagnan added.

"It gets worse," Athos said dryly, "Richelieu pardoned Varade on the condition that he never step foot back in France again, and, that he enter into an exclusive trading partnership with him. Sound a bit familiar?"

"Bonnaire," Aramis breathed, "Just the same. No care for what that man did. The Cardinal only sees the profit in it for himself," Aramis flung the parchment to the table in disgust.

"But why attack Porthos now?" D'Artagnan asked

"It makes little sense," Aramis agreed, "The house we saw is more than well-appointed. Clearly this partnership has been extremely lucrative for him, even on terms favorable to the Cardinal."

"He is still an exile," Athos shrugged, "Only able to send his riches back to a wife and children he will never see. He may be living in a chateau on _Saint-Pierre_ , but he will never leave it. It is hot and rough there, too rough to send for his wife and family and very far from the comfortable life of a French Comte. He must be angry still."

"Yet if he is not on French soil, how did he orchestrate this? How is it even possible?" D'Artagnan asked incredulously.

Aramis's eyes grew dark, "He has a family. A family that hates musketeers."

"The wife is not capable," Athos said, pouring himself more brandy and passing the bottle to Treville, "but he has children."

Aramis nodded his head in agreement, remembering his conversation with the girl at the estate, and with the stable boy, "The servants said the older children were off visiting a relation in Normandie, but the youngest daughter said they were conducting very important business. Everything that girl said is turning out to be true. I don't think she was lying about this."

"So where does that leave us though?" D'Artagnan burst out, anger and worry marring his young face, "We have no idea where he is, what they have done to him, and why they haven't just killed him. Or maybe they have and we just haven't found his body yet! We have nothing but guesses here!" he shouted, flinging his arms in frustration. He reacted badly to the movement, calling out in pain and curling forward with the agony he had sparked in his rib cage. Aramis caught the boy immediately, one arm over his shoulders and the other hand suddenly clenched in D'Artagnan's white-knuckled grip. Flea rose and moved beside the boy, threading her fingers in his hair and trying to soothe him. Treville watched as Aramis quieted his companion, telling him to breathe through the pain, seemingly oblivious to what must be D'Artagnan's painful grasp on his hand. Treville glanced at Athos as they waited for D'Artagnan to catch his breath. The man was sitting forward in his chair, ready to move should he be needed, but the look on his face was soft, a gaze of utter trust directed toward the marksman tending his young protégé. Treville marveled at them still, this complete and unbreakable bond that transcended any soldiering relationships he himself had ever had. The addition of D'Artagnan had surprised him, but it seemed that once Athos had chosen to take the boy under his wing, the other two had simply closed ranks in support. If Athos said he was brother, then he was. The absence of Porthos was a ragged hole amongst them. One that Treville doubted their bond could survive if it became permanent.

D'Artagnan's breathing began to even out and he finally released his grip on Aramis's hand. The young recruit straightened his shoulders slightly and gently maneuvered himself with Flea's assistance to a more upright sitting position. He raised his face and Treville could see tears still filling his eyes, but from pain of the body or the heart he did not know. D'Artagnan's anguished eyes spoke volumes for the rest of them, all too seasoned as soldiers to let their emotions escape so readily.

"I'm sorry," D'Artagnan mumbled.

Treville sighed through his nose and moved to refill D'Artagnan's cup. "Not the first such outburst today," he said cryptically, arching an eyebrow at Athos.

Athos for his part adopted a wide, innocent stare, "I'm sure my time in your office this evening was nothing but pleasant," he said cordially.

Treville gave a small snort. These men were impossible. And he loved them each like sons. Treville took up the last parchment, this one longer, and unrolled it on top of the others littering the table. It was a map of Normandie, every road, village, town and city carefully marked as were abbeys, workhouses, and schools. Treville had a reputation for having some of the finest and most painstakingly detailed maps in all of Paris. Only the King's cartographers themselves rivaled his collection. Aramis and Flea helped D'Artagnan to his feet so that they could all examine the map.

"When I was speaking with Madame de Varade, she said that her son managed the winery and her daughter their imports and exports," Athos said, "So the Captain did some research and while the vineyard is north of Paris, the winery is a large operation on the coast, in _Deauville_ ," and Athos placed a finger at the spot. "I think this is the place where they would take him. They have that property in their control, presumably their men there are loyal, and they are close enough to Le Havre to have hired mercenaries from the port there who we could not easily identify in Paris."

"Why take him though?" D'Artagnan asked quietly, "Why not just kill him if that's what they wanted." His young voice was laced with despair.

"Because they don't seek Porthos's death," Athos answered in a low voice, "they seek revenge. They want to inflict a pain on Porthos equal to the pain they have felt. Most people seeking vengeance believe that making someone suffer as they have will somehow erase their hurts. I can assure you," Athos added darkly, "that that is not true," Athos paused, and tapped his finger on the map, "There is no better spot for them than that winery."

Treville looked at Aramis, wondering if his belief in Athos was strong enough in this moment to agree to follow this slim lead. With all that they had deduced, they still had no hard evidence that Porthos had been taken to Deauville. All they had was Athos's instincts. The marksman's face was unreadable as his deep brown eyes stared down at the map as if an answer would emerge if he just looked hard enough. He exhaled through his nose, pursed his lips and looked to Athos. He searched his friend's face for a moment, and then Treville was rewarded by Aramis's small nod. Athos nodded back in return, clapping a hand to Aramis's shoulder. D'Artagnan shifted closer, putting his arm across Aramis's back and resting his hand on top of Athos's. It was decided.

Treville took in the men standing before him. Strong, determined, united. The fact that their fourth was not there to complete their circle weighed heavily on the Captain's heart. "I'll get you provisioned," Treville said, a slight rasp in his voice the only betrayal of his deep emotions, "You leave at first light," as he turned to leave, Athos stopped him with a hand to his arm.

"Captain," the musketeer said, his deep blue eyes holding an ocean of unreadable feelings, "Thank you," and he saw Athos swallow hard as if trying to keep all of those feelings at bay. Treville offered him a fatherly smile and a slight pat on the hand that held his arm. It's all he really trusted himself to do.

"Get some rest," he admonished them, then left their room, letting the door latch quietly behind him. It would be a dark night for all of them but at least those three could wait it out together.

"I have to go," Flea let go of D'Artagnan's arm and moved toward the door, "I am going to find that little runt Jehan and find out who he let into our midst."

"It's late, Madame," Aramis appealed to her, "If you could wait . . ."

"Wait?" she leaned across the table from the tall musketeer and peered furiously up at him, "You expect me to wait here when I have a traitor in my house who might have a clue to Porthos's whereabouts," Flea stared defiantly up at him, "Don't you dare expect me to sit meekly by the fire and watch you men take care of everything. You haven't done such a good job of it yet, have you?" Her words were sharp and Aramis felt the sting. He hooked a chair with his leg and helped D'Artagnan to sit, then looked again at Flea with a softened gaze.

"I was only going to ask if you would wait long enough for us to arrange an escort," Aramis offered.

"Do I really look like I need one," Flea huffed, but he saw the tension start to release from her body. "I live in the streets, remember?" she added.

"Yes, you do, I am aware," Aramis said quietly as he made his way around the table to stand in front of her, "and so you are also aware of what can happen in Paris at night," He took her gently by the shoulders and peered at her with a soft gaze, "Porthos would never forgive me if anything happened to you and it was in my power to have prevented it." That statement seemed to catch her up short, and she let out a long sigh. "Additionally," Aramis pressed his advantage, "an escort can return swiftly should you have news." Aramis watched her process his logic, and with another small sigh, she acquiesced.

"Thank you, Madame, for all you have done here today," Athos said gently as his gaze flicked briefly toward D'Artagnan, "We are in your debt for your assistance, and for the love you bear our brother," and he gave her a small bow. Aramis raised an eye at Athos's heartfelt words. It was not like him to be that expressive to anyone, even amongst their own group. It was a testament to the tension and worry he must be feeling.

Flea nodded and gathered her shawl around her, looking a little uncomfortable at all the gallantry and noble talk suddenly focused on her. She gave them both a thin smile and made her way to leave.

Athos put a hand to her arm to stop her, "Treville is below," he said, "He will arrange for an escort. Please be careful." Flea gave him a bemused look and gave a little tilt of her head, a slight mimic of the bow Athos had offered her. Athos released her arm and she departed down the stairs.


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N: Thank you to everyone who took a moment to leave a review or comment. I very much appreciate the encouragement. We are about to take a dark turn, so if you are sensitive to the cruelty man can inflict on man, you may not want to read to the end. My gratitude as always goes to Issai for her vigilance in insisting on clarity in my writing and gently trying to fix my flaws but sadly, I make more mistakes than one person should have to feel responsible for._

* * *

 _Waking up was like surfacing from a deep pool. Awareness, consciousness was small at first – just an awareness of darkness. Then the tug of his physical body – the fire in his side, the cold air on his skin, the ache in his head. Awareness brought faces and voices – his brothers, worried over him. Touching him. Making him drink something, making him sleep again. Each time he rose to the surface, they dragged him back down to oblivion. He could not remember now how long for the darkness, the pain, the voices, then the darkness again._

 _His brothers were arguing. About him. He strained to understand words. He was forgetting something important again. Something he kept trying to remember but they wouldn't let him. The voices changed. It was a woman issuing orders. Not his brothers. It never had been. He was dreaming that. Or was he dreaming her? Her with the soft touch and the bitter drinks. Something shifted within the blackness. His eyes were closed but he was aware of light. The fire was the wound on his side, she had sewn it. The ache in his body was from the cold ground he slept on. He finally remembered, he was not with his brothers. He was not safe. His thoughts were hard to hold on to, so he clung instead to her voice and forced his eyes open. The light was not as strong as he thought – it was dawn and the sky was a streak of lavender. He turned his head slightly to the left, and his vision swirled. Eventually, his eyes focused on her. Long blue skirt in an ocean of yellow. He was in a field somewhere. Others moved in and out of his line of vision. Men in leather boots like his brothers' – but not his brothers. He was sure of that at least. Not here. Not in this field with her. He was not safe. He took a quiet breath. Concentrate. What was she saying?_

 _". . . I am not coddling him," she was chastising someone, "I'm protecting an investment. Our investment. We have put too much into this to lose him now to your simpleminded appetite for revenge."_

 _"You treat him like a pet," a nasal male voice he'd heard before. When they were sewing him. He strained to make sense of the words, "A lap dog for you to stroke."_

 _"That beast is less than a dog," her voice was hard like steel, "I just don't want him to die of his injuries. There are so many better ways for him to die," her tone changed again, she was warm and purring, "Consider that, brother. Consider the life stolen from us and how many long years we will have to pay it back."_

 _The man murmured something and they moved from his field of vision. More men walked back and forth. They were active. Moving, carrying. Animals shuffling by. Breaking camp. This was familiar – he knew this. Knew they were busy. Distracted. He rolled onto his stomach and pain flared like a fire through his side and his head swam so violently he felt himself sinking into the blackness again._

 _"Get up," the voice was quiet and commanding. Familiar._

 _"Get up," again the command. He forced his eyes open but no one was near._

 _"Get up," it insisted. In his head. Clearer than anything had been._

 _"Get up."_

 _Athos._

 _That voice was not to be denied. He tried to push himself to his hands and knees but found he had no strength._

 _"Move. Now."_

 _He crawled._

 _Crawled forward slowly, bare chest scraping against the earth. Hands and feet remembering how to move. One hand, one foot. The next hand, the next foot. Fire burning in his body. And Athos, telling him to move. Keep moving._

 _He found himself under a cart. Moving had hurt, but the pain brought more awareness. His arms began to feel connected to his mind. His legs were his to command. He fought the nausea and pushed himself to his hands and knees. He was trembling, but Athos told him to move and again, he did._

 _He crawled to the other side of the cart, even further from the men he had seen. Using the cart to brace himself, he hauled himself up to his feet._

 _The entire world tilted. His body trembled. His head screamed. The pain was so intense it sucked the air from his lungs. He clamped down his jaw, bit his tongue._

 _"Breathe," his gentle brother whispered in his ear. Aramis._

 _"Breathe," Aramis was soft but urgent, "Breathe through the pain," and he did. He let air into his nose and let it slide out quietly through his mouth. He did it again, and a third time, following Aramis's words like a lifeline back from a raging river. He breathed until he could stand. Until he knew where his body was. He forced his eyes open. The shadows of dawn were tricky, but not far, those were trees. That was safety._

 _He raised a shaky hand to wipe the sweat from his eyes. The air was cold, but his body was trembling and warm._

 _"A fever," Aramis told him, "From your wound." The wound she had sewn. The wound that should have killed him. He had to keep moving Athos reminded him. He pushed off from the cart and began a shaky, stuttering walk toward the clump of trees._

 _"Your dog is running off," he heard the nasal voice behind him. His stomach clenched and he felt the beating of his heart thundering in his chest. Keep moving, Athos said, keep moving. The woman laughed, high and light._

 _"Let him have a run," her voice was full of smiles, "He's not going to get far," and she giggled. "Claude, Martin, go get my stray," she called out._

 _The trees were so close. But now too far. There was no safety left._

 _"You need a weapon," D'Artagnan's voice full of passion and strength. "Defend yourself" he demanded._

 _His foot struck something and he risked a downward glance. A hefty branch from the edge of the stand of trees. He stooped to pick it up, but almost fell over. He caught himself from collapsing but remained crouched on the ground. Aramis again made him breathe._

 _"Stand up. They're coming." Athos commanded._

 _"Serve them death," D'Artagnan urged, "Until the last breath has left your body."_

 _"I'll take your pain," Aramis whispered._

 _And he did. The pain lifted from his body like a leaf on the wind and his pounding chest sent boiling hot blood through his veins. His vision dimmed to a narrow channel and a red cast overtook his sight. He grabbed the branch and with a raging howl pushed to his feet and spun to meet the two men approaching behind him. He slammed the branch into the head of the first and it connected with a sickening crack. The man dropped like a stone. He turned his rage to the next face, this one had enough time to raise his hands and try to block the blow. His first strike brought the man to his knees. The next strikes pounded him into the ground. His face split open like a bloody melon. There were shouts and the sound of running feet. And then more hands. He swung violently with his branch, connecting with arms and torsos. But they grabbed at him anyway. He was punched in the face, in the ribs, and then kicked in his side, the wound breeding more pain into his aching body. He finally collapsed under a heap of bodies, all kicking and punching until he could do nothing except curl into a ball and hope they finished him._

 _He must have passed out again because time skipped. He was being pulled to his feet. Two men had him under the arms and they were half dragging him the short distance to the trees. They shoved him roughly against the trunk of one and pulled his arms around it, the bark pressing into his chest like little tiny knives as they bound him tightly. A hand grabbed his hair and pulled back his head._

 _"Is this where you wanted to go?" the nasal voice sneered, "You will wish you'd never seen these trees by the time I am done with you." He let him go. Leaves and twigs crunched behind him. The whistle and crack of a horse whip sounded in the air. He knew what was next._

 _"Wait," her voice was steady. He heard the rustle of her skirts as she moved closely behind him. Her gloved hands stroked his back gently and she leaned her cheek against his shoulder to whisper to him, "I want to admire this before I destroy it," she said, pressed up against him, "And then I will fix it, and we will destroy it again. And again. And again." She cooed like a lover, then ruthlessly grabbed the back of his neck, digging her fingers into the base of his skull, "You are my creature," she sneered, "and you will beg me for the whip by the time I am done with you." She released him and stepped away._

 _The first stroke fell and he grunted in pain. The second and he tasted blood in his mouth from biting his tongue. The third and his back was fire. The fourth and blood was running down his side. The fifth and his mind screamed. The sixth and he could not count anymore. Maybe the screaming was not just in his mind. His brothers whispered. Fight. Breathe. Live._

* * *

 _He never truly lost consciousness but time was slippery. Dawn had given way to morning when they cut him down. His hands were tied and he was dragged back to the wagon, thrown onto a blanket in the back. He curled up on his side. They started moving, the sway of it was familiar to him now. She was there. He smelled the bitter drink before she put it to his lips._

 _"Drink," she said quietly, "or I will force you."_

 _Drink, his brother said. You have to heal. You have to live. He listened to Aramis._

 _The familiar leaden quality started to drift into his limbs, his mind grew cloudier but he did not sleep this time. Either he was getting stronger, or the medicine was having a different effect. He felt a surprising comfort in his lethargy. His body had wanted this. He felt her soft hands on him, pushing him to lie on his stomach. He let himself respond. There was no reason to fight her now._

 _She had a bowl and a soft cloth and she dabbed gently at his back, cleaning the dirt, sweat and blood. He winced as her hands lit him on fire again. She rang out the cloth and mopped the sweat from his fevered face. He thought of other hands cleaning his wounds, not her, but could not quite remember._

 _Something cool, soothing and sweet smelling was traced along his back. Over each stroke mark, she slid delicate fingers leaving a trail of delicious relief as she touched him. The relief of pain was itself pleasure. He sighed in spite of himself._

 _"You like that," she purred into his ear, "You are lovely and strong," she whispered as she stroked the salve over his ragged back, "This will help you heal quickly." He relaxed. His body looking for rest. She moved away from him for a moment and the sway of the cart lulled him toward sleep. She returned and stroked a hand through his hair. "This you will like less, I'm afraid," she said gently, "but some of these are deep. My brother has a strong hand," she held a needle and thread up before his face. "He knows how much I like to sew," she smiled._

 _He tried to push away from her, but his limbs again were slow to respond. She tsked at him with a little click of her tongue, and then settled beside him with a knee on his shoulder, effectively pinning him over his hands, bound at his chest and trapped beneath him. She slid the needle into his skin, and he winced. As the needle traced its fiery path up and down the lines of his back, she hummed something wordless. A lullaby. Each row was a searing pain, then a smooth cool line traced away the fire. He began to crave the relief with each painful stitch. Something nagged at his mind, the voices of his brothers were distant, quiet, muffled. He couldn't hold full thoughts. Just fire and ice. Pain and release. And her wordless humming like a girl stitching at a quilt._

* * *

"Feeling better?" she asked her brother as she climbed out of the back of the cart and onto the seat beside the driver. She wiped her bloody hands on a damp rag and looked up at Benoit riding his horse alongside her.

"Like having a glass of wine before dinner," he smiled at her, "Pleasant, but in no way satisfying when what you crave is a full meal."

"Well, he is stronger than I thought," she answered, becoming occupied with rubbing out a spot of blood from her dress, "I think that you can have more fun with him when we stop at noon. Just not his back again," she looked up with an admonishing glance, "Remember what you did to that one last summer? You beat him so often you nearly flayed him. You must leave enough of him for me to sew back together."

"Fine then. What would you like me to damage next?" She put a hand to her brow to block the sun and peered up at him, giving serious consideration to a range of options.

"Let's put him over the barrel," she suggested with a smile. Benoit's eyes lit up at her suggestion. "I know it is a little soon, but we don't have much time and I want his mind and his body ready for the journey."

"Do you honestly think you can break him in only three days?" Benoit asked, his raised brow emphasizing the dubiousness of the plan, "Considering we lost yesterday to him being senseless in the cart."

"Truly break him? No," Celeste answered thoughtfully, "But the laudanum will keep his body lethargic enough that he won't be much trouble, and his mind addled enough that he will be highly suggestable. But I don't want to break him yet anyway," her face hardened in an angry mask, "I want him to know what is happening to him. I want him to know his life is over and that we are the ones who took it. I want just enough left in him that when he bows in chains before father, he knows he is well and truly lost."


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: For those sensitive to acts of human cruelty, the dark scenes of the previous chapter continue. I truly appreciate the reviews and follows. I have never written anything this long and it's humbling and inspiring to know that people are sticking with reading it. Thank you as always to Issai for encouragement, emotional support and being a vigilant and committed beta-reader. The story is really the better for her contributions. I make tons of mistakes regardless of her intervention._

* * *

The morning was chilly and warm breath rose from the horses as they stamped and huffed in expectation of their riders. They were well provisioned but ready to ride hard. The stable boys held the reins while two musketeers moved among the beasts, distributing food and ammunition. Despite the early hour, other men drifted around the courtyard. They were quiet and anxious, sparing glances back to the arched entrance of the garrison and chaffing at the delay. Treville was waiting on orders from the King.

Gerome had returned from the Court just before dawn. Flea had tracked down Jehan and he admitted that he had been paid by Renault, the wine merchant, to show him the secret way into Flea's quarters. He had met the men at the stairs and told them where to go, had seen them drag Porthos's bloody body out the door and into the waiting cart. In was an easy matter for Flea and her men to find Renault in his cups at a rough tavern at the edge of the court. Treville did not ask what they had done to obtain his admission, but the parchment Gerome had delivered contained details of Renault's dealings with a young Comte de Varade. It was enough evidence to take to the King and obtain warrants.

Now they waited on Louis. For the normally late sleeper to rise. For his willingness to put a hand to the order. Treville forbade them to leave until he returned. The musketeers of the garrison were restless. Waiting was not their strong suit. Nor were they pleased that the circumstantial evidence was not enough to justify a strong contingent so Treville planned to send only a small force. Any one of them would have been willing to ride out this morning in search of their missing comrade, but they all knew which three would be the ones to go. If any doubted that they would succeed, they chose not to speak it. The Inseparables, as they called them, were legend and they all chose to believe in it.

A horse thundered in through the archway, his rider deftly pulling him up before he careened headlong into one of the men milling about. The other horses whickered at the addition as Treville swiftly dismounted. He left the reins on the pommel of his saddle, knowing another man would manage his mount as he made his way up the stairs two at a time, his blue cloak floating behind. He was met by a thunderstorm bursting from his office door. He pushed his men back inside and closed the door.

The tension in the courtyard grew as the minutes got longer without the door opening. No one wanted to think what would happen if the King had denied the order.

Finally, the Captain emerged, Athos at his side, hurrying along the balcony to the staircase. D'Artagnan followed, moving stiffly but swiftly nonetheless, Aramis just behind him. Everyone watching knew the young recruit had been injured the day before, but his step seemed sure even if his face was pale. Aramis slung his musket over his shoulder as he left the doorway, the normally jovial marksman serious and grim. No one wanted to be in his way today.

Treville paused at the bottom of the stair, folding up the parchment he had been reading on the way down, the royal seal visible above the fold. He handed the papers to Athos.

"Everything is in order," he said as Athos slipped the parchment into his leathers, "The King has authorized force if necessary. There are letters to the port master and the garrison at _Le Havre_ if necessary. But keep it quiet."

"The Cardinal will not be pleased," Athos said dryly.

"Let me worry about Richelieu," Treville huffed, "I'm in no mood for him today." D'Artagnan and Aramis joined Athos, flanking either side of him as he stood before the Captain. "You three," Treville exhaled, shaking his head, "I don't suppose it's worth my breath to tell you to be careful."

Aramis gave him a mirthless smile, "Worry about Porthos's abductors, once we catch up with them."

Treville put a hand to D'Artagnan's shoulder. He still was not certain if he should have given permission for a recruit, a wounded one no less, to be the third in the small band the king had authorized, but Athos and Aramis had insisted. And the boy probably would have had to be tied to the bed to keep him from following. He had to trust his musketeers knew what they were about. "You are sure you are up to this?" Treville had to ask anyway. The lad met his eyes with a challenge as if daring him to try to keep him home.

"He's fine," Aramis intervened before D'Artagnan had a chance to say something regrettable, "Besides, he's riding with his nursemaid," he quipped and propelled D'Artagnan from Treville's grasp and toward their waiting horses. Treville watched Aramis give the lad a leg up, caught the grimace in the marksman's face as he strained his bruised shoulder. He hoped Athos would be guardian to them both. Aramis made some adjustments to D'Artagnan's stirrup and girth strap before moving on to his own mount. Treville turned his attention back to his lieutenant, Athos's face unreadable but his blue eyes deadly.

"Bring them home," Treville said gruffly, cuffing Athos on the shoulder, "All of them."

Athos said nothing but met Treville's gaze with determination and a small nod. He moved to his horse and mounted swiftly, checking one more time his weapons and holsters. He gazed around the courtyard, the flurry of activity from earlier had quieted. Over a dozen grim faces met his gaze, silent witness to a mission they all hoped they would never face. Athos gave a nod back to Treville and then spurred his horse forward, Aramis and D'Artagnan following. As Treville watched them disappear through the archway, he knew the hearts and prayers of the garrison rode with them.

* * *

The sun was at its zenith when Athos called a halt in a small copse of trees just off the main road. They pulled up their mounts and the two older men immediately dismounted. D'Artagnan stayed perched in his saddle, confusion registering on his face.

"Why are we stopping?" he was almost petulant as he shared a bewildered look with his companions.

"To rest the horses," Athos said over his shoulder as he loosened the chest strap of his big black gelding.

"And to eat lunch," Aramis added, slipping a leather bag over his shoulder.

"The horses aren't tired yet, and I'm not hungry," D'Artagnan protested from the saddle.

"He's seen through us," Athos said dryly.

"Very well," Aramis said, moving beside D'Artagnan, "We want to check your wounds. Come down from there."

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes, "Aramis, I'm fine! This is ridiculous. We've only been riding four hours."

"Four hours is plenty for a concussed man with three cracked ribs and a hole in his shoulder," Aramis replied, "Come down."

D'Artagnan threw up his hands in disbelief, "Athos, we don't have time for this!" he nearly whined.

"I can feel your headache from here," Athos replied, cocking his head to the side and looking at D'Artagnan expectantly, "Don't make me regret my decision to bring you."

The boy sighed and gave one last hopeful glance to Aramis. The marksmen merely gestured with his hands, waving him down from the saddle.

With an exasperated sigh, D'Artagnan swung his leg over the back of his horse and immediately regretted it. The impact of his hit foot hitting the ground erased the steady ache in his side with a jolt of stabbing pain that coursed through his torso. His head swam with the rapid motion and as he reached with his wounded arm to steady himself against his mount he cried out in pain. He might have ended up in the dirt if Aramis had not been there to catch him under the arms and support him until his head stopped spinning.

To his credit, Aramis said nothing, just helped D'Artagnan to sit on a fallen log while Athos shifted closer to take charge of their mounts. D'Artagnan sat heavily, a hand going up to rub his brow as he panted through the throbbing pain behind his eyes. "You're right," he finally said to Aramis, "My head feels like someone is trying to drive a fence post into my brain and my chest feels like a knife is between my ribs."

"Let me help you, then," Aramis said gently. "Athos, can you set some water to warm?" he called to his comrade. Aramis began unbuckling D'Artagnan's doublet, pushing away the young man's hands when he tried to help, "Don't strain your shoulder, just let me please," he said. He slipped the doublet from D'Artagnan's shoulder and first checked the knife wound. It wasn't bleeding, but it looked angry around the edges as the body fought to heal. Aramis pulled off a glove with his teeth and lightly pressed the area around the wound. D'Artagnan winced despite the gentleness of the touch. It felt warm beneath Aramis's fingers, but it was healing and no fluids seeped from it.

"This is not too bad," Aramis reassured D'Artagnan. "I'm going to change the bandages," He pulled a jar from his bag and a roll of thin fabric, "and I made a mustard poultice this morning. It's strong," he said, unstrapping the lid from the small pot. The smell of mustard was intense, but D'Artagnan did not complain. Aramis laid a clean cloth over the wound, then added the paste on top so as not to burn tender skin. The heat from the paste was not unpleasant, even if the smell made D'Artagnan feel like he was on the dinner menu. Aramis carefully wrapped the wound again and then moved to his ribs.

Aramis couldn't help but give a sympathetic grimace as he lifted the boy's shirt and unwound the bindings. His side and back were a collage of yellow, black and blue bruises, some of which still distinctly showed the outline of a boot. "I've got some comfrey in my bag to help that, as soon as we have some hot water," Aramis gently put his hands to D'Artagnan's face, "Look at me," he asked, "Try to open your eyes all the way." D'Artagnan complied, forcing his eyes wide despite the pain burrowing into his head. "Your eyes still look clear, so that is good," Aramis gave him a smile, "So just something to manage the pain and we are set."

"Here," Athos appeared at his side, a copper cup of water held carefully with a bandana wrapped around the handle. Aramis opened a square of cloth with some dried herbs in his still gloved hand. The comfrey D'Artagnan assumed, and he watched Aramis pour some of the hot water onto the cloth. He let it seep in, then folded the cloth and started to work it into a paste.

"Can you put some peppermint in what's left in that cup?" Aramis asked Athos, who immediately started fishing in the medical pouch. Aramis gently began to smear the paste over D'Artagnan's bruises. The comfrey smelled better than the mustard at least, and the warm paste was soothing. Aramis took up the roll of bandages and began to tightly bind D'Artagnan's ribs again. It was painful, but D'Artagnan knew it would be far easier to move and breathe if they were tightly wrapped. Athos went back to the saddle bags and returned with hard cheese, bread and apples. He pulled his small dagger and started slicing one of the apples.

"Athos," Aramis chided him for misusing the blade.

"What?" he said defensively, "I'm hungry." He sliced off a quarter of the apple and handed it to D'Artagnan. "Eat something," he said matter-of-factly, "Your stomach will thank you once Aramis pours one of his concoctions down there." D'Artagnan spared a glance to the marksmen, who was just tying off the bandage at his side. He nodded in sympathetic agreement.

Aramis repositioned himself beside D'Artagnan and took some cheese from Athos. He chewed at that while using his other hand to rub the muscles at the base of D'Artagnan's neck and head. While the main causes of the headache were the blows to the head, stiff and sore muscles from riding injured could not be helpful. The tension began to release in D'Artagnan's neck as they ate in silence.

Athos finished his small meal then took up the other cup from the fire and moved in front of Aramis.

"Your turn," he said, holding his hand out expectantly.

"I'm fine," Aramis said with a shake of his head and a bright smile.

"You're impossible," Athos answered, "And setting a bad example. Give me the comfrey and let me tend your shoulder. This is not a discussion." D'Artagnan wondered how Aramis would respond, given his penchant for disliking direct orders, but something in Athos's voice must have let Aramis know he was not going to win. Aramis dropped the bundle of comfrey into Athos's outstretched hand and began unbuckling his doublet while the swordsman made up a paste as Aramis had done for D'Artagnan earlier.

Athos moved behind Aramis and pulled down his doublet and shirt to expose his shoulder, deep blue and yellow bruises coloring the abused joint. Athos let out a low whistle. "That's got to be hurting," he said as he gently began rubbing the paste on Aramis's shoulder.

D'Artagnan watched the men beside him. Aramis initially wincing but then forcing himself to relax as the salve began to do its work. Athos, moving his calloused hands with a practiced tenderness that showed more about his feelings for his comrade than anything he could say. D'Artagnan realized that there was no argument from Aramis because they had done this before many, many times. Athos told him often enough that hiding injuries put your brothers-in-arms in danger and having to worry about someone being fit for duty distracted everyone for the mission at hand.

D'Artagnan let out a deep sigh, "I'm slowing us down," he said calmly, a determined set to his jaw, "I shouldn't have come."

"No, actually you are helping us," Athos said sincerely, smoothing on the last of the salve and gingerly easing Aramis's shirt and doublet back up over the bruised area. "You are forcing us to keep a quick pace, but not drive ourselves and the horses into exhaustion before we even find the enemy. Caring for you forces us to care for ourselves."

"Athos and I discussed it before we left," Aramis said, buckling his doublet, "You are here as much to steady us, as you are to help rescue Porthos."

"I hope you hear the irony in that," D'Artagnan chuckled.

"Trust me, it was not lost on either of us," Athos answered, "Truth be told, D'Artagnan, every time I tell you to put your head before your heart, I am telling myself as well. I need that, we need that," he amended, putting a hand to Aramis's shoulder, "more than ever this day. Recklessness now will not save Porthos."

"You are our touchstone, _mon ami,"_ Aramis added, with a companionable pat to his thigh, "Just please do not fall off your horse," he smiled warmly at their young friend, "Is that ready?" Aramis asked Athos, nodding toward the cup. Athos passed it to him, and Aramis fished one more time in his bag. This time he brought out a small cloth wrapped bundle. He carefully unrolled it to reveal a brown glass bottle with a cork stopper. He unplugged it and D'Artagnan immediately caught the bitter scent. Laudanum.

"Just a few drops," Aramis said, carefully dispensing the liquid into the tea, "A tiny amount, just enough to dull the pain in your head. A little more and you would be sleepy. Too much and your mind is befuddled. Far too much and your breathing would stop. Amazing distillation," he said, passing the cup to D'Artagnan, "The right amount can heal you, but the wrong amount can kill you."

"Are you certain you have the right amount?" D'Artagnan asked with wide, earnest eyes.

"Yes, I'm certain," Aramis smiled reassuringly, "I've given it to you enough times, haven't I? And I haven't even come close to killing you yet." D'Artagnan threw a suspicious look into the cup but downed the tea quickly without further protest. Despite what they had said about wanting to pace themselves, D'Artagnan knew it was time to get back on the horses. Athos was already kicking out the small fire and Aramis was packing the medical supplies back into the bag.

Aramis stood and offered to help D'Artagnan up. He took the proffered hand and let Aramis pull him to his feet. This time his head did not spin, and his shoulder and ribs felt easier – the warmth of the poultices drawing out some of the pain. Athos brought up the horses, and D'Artagnan took the leg up without complaint.

"Thank you," he said as Aramis tightened the girth strap and settled D'Artagnan's foot back into its stirrup.

Aramis patted him affectionately on the leg. He mounted up and they made their way back to the road. With a glance behind him to make sure D'Artagnan was settled, Athos kicked up to a canter and the two men urged their horses forward to pace him on either side. They would not stop again until nightfall.

* * *

 _He was floating somewhere not quite part of his body when they dragged him from the wagon. He blinked against the sunlight, searing his eyes and sending shooting pains through his head. The sun was high above, the shadows short. The noon hour for some reason registered in his mind. There was a circle of men, eight maybe, standing around a large wine barrel laying on its side. They dragged him next to it. Two men still gripped his arms, his hands still bound in front of him. He might not be standing if they were not there. She was there, her blue dress catching the sunlight. She smiled at him lovingly and stroked his cheek. He blinked at her, thinking he should remember something._

 _She made a movement with her hands and something flashed in the sunlight. A stiletto. Tiny, sharp. Small. For a woman's hands. She placed the point at his throat._

 _"Don't move," she breathed, "Don't even twitch." She slowly traced a line from throat to sternum to belly, then lower still. She paused at the cord holding up his filthy, blood-stained braes. He felt the knife resting there, felt it slide just below the cord. His muscles tightened and then in a quick gesture the cord was cut and his braes fell to the ground. His small clothes were next and he stood naked and bound as the men around him laughed._

 _"Breathe," Aramis whispered, "It is just a body. Breathe."_

 _"Kneel," she said._

 _He blinked at her. Nothing registering in his mind except breathing._

 _"She said kneel," the nasal voice behind him, and then a hand shoved him in the middle of his ravaged back. His back became a sheet of flame as he fell to his knees. One of the men beside him yanked up his head by his hair, the other placed an iron collar around his neck._

 _He saw red again. Bucking with his neck and shoulders to throw the men off him, to throw off the wretched collar. He heard the whistle of the whip before it cracked along his back. Agony flared across his shoulders. He struggled still and the whip fell again, and again. He screamed in pain and still he fought until a boot caught him between his shoulder blades and he was shoved forward onto his stomach in the dirt. Two men pinned his shoulders and another placed a booted foot on his head. The iron collar snapped in place and a lock clicked at the back of his neck._

 _They hauled him back up to his knees as he panted and moaned. His face was wet. Tears. Angry tears. Frightened tears. He didn't know, he felt like he couldn't breathe. Another man came forward and passed a chain through a metal ring at the front of the collar. The man sliced the rope binding his hands but before he could move he was again shoved face down to the ground, and two men on each side pinned his arms in front of him. Manacles. They locked them in place and then slipped the ends of the chain through loops in the manacles. Another lock for the chains._

 _They dragged him to the barrel._

 _It took four men to haul him over it. They stretched him across it on his stomach and pulled his arms forward, spreading them wide until his hands just touched the ground. Then they staked the chains. If he tried to stand or gain more purchase with his feet, he would be stopped by the collar. If he rolled forward, his arms were too wide to support his weight. He would lay helplessly balanced on the barrel._

 _Then they just walked away._

 _He was not sure how long he lay there, but the pain from the new lashes kept him anchored, awake._

 _He sorted through the shreds of his mind. There were holes, gaps in his memory. He still was not sure when he had been taken, where he was. Who these people were. The most recent days were like rags in the wind._

 _But the past he knew. Knew his name. Knew his life in the Court. Knew his brothers. He had had such a difficult time remembering them, but now, with the pain they were all there again. They should not see him like this. Collared. Naked. Humiliated. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, unwilling to let tears fall a second time._

 _"It's just a body," Aramis whispered to him again._

 _"It's just a body."_

 _"It's just a body."_

 _Aramis whispered it like a song – like one of his chants at mass._

 _He breathed with that. Steadied himself with that._

 _"We will find you," D'Artagnan promised. Steady voice. Earnest. Passionate_

 _Find me. Where are you now! The despair was overwhelming_

 _"Looking," D'Artagnan said, "Looking."_

 _He took in a shuddering breath, getting more difficult to do the longer he stayed stretched in this position. His arms ached, his head, his back was a river of fire. The sun poured down on him and his mouth was dry, lips cracked. He was drowning in pain, dust and heat._

 _Maybe they would just leave him here to die? That didn't frighten him._

 _He thought about death. He thought about the absence of pain as pleasure. The searing sting of the needle, the cool lines of the salve. This was the needle – death the salve._

 _"We will find you," D'Artagnan was back._

 _Where are you now?_

 _"Looking."_

 _That's not enough!_

 _"It has to be," Athos said, "Death is not an option."_

 _"Death is not an option."_

 _"We will find you."_

 _He held on to them. To their words. To their voices. He closed his eyes but couldn't see them. But they were there. It's just a body. They are looking. They will find me. Death is not an option._

Her skirts rustled beside him and she picked up his head by the hair.

"Thirsty?" she asked sweetly.

 _His opened his eyes and squinted at her trying to see. The blue dress shined in the sunlight. She held a pan of water in her hands. A pan for the goats. For pigs. But it was water._

"Answer me," she demanded now, "or you will not drink."

 _We will find you. Death is not an option._

"Yes," he barely breathed the word.

She held the pan up to his face and he lapped up some water with his tongue.

 _There was laughter. He ignored it. It's just a body._

She removed the pan. He'd barely had a sip. A small gasp escaped his lips.

"Do you want some more?" her voice was sweet and light.

 _He knew how this worked now. Death was not an option._

"Yes," he answered with strength this time.

"Then ask me for the whip," she said.

 _He couldn't breathe. For a moment, he couldn't breathe._

 _"Death is not an option," Athos was stern._

 _I can't. I can't!_

"Ask me for the whip," she demanded, "And you can have it all."

 _"We're going to find you," D'Artagnan pleaded, "But you must be alive."_

"Ask me!" she shouted, "I will beat you raw either way. So ask me!"

 _"Ask her," Aramis was so gentle, so quiet, his voice like a caress. "I will undo all of the hurt. It's just a body and I will care for it."_

 _We are going to find you. I will undo all of the hurt. You must be alive. He wasn't listening to her. He was listening to his brothers. They would find him, alive, and they would save him. Death was not an option._

"Yes," it was a growl, the sound of a beast, "whip me."


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N: Thank you for the comments and follows :) Writing a long work is very challenging, as I keep learning at every chapter, and I appreciate the feedback about the length and pace of the story. There are definitely things I will do differently next time. My gratitude to Issai for keeping the details straight and not letting my musketeers veer off course. I don't own the characters, just the mistakes._

* * *

 _He couldn't remember how many days or nights had passed since the first beating, but this time, he let them lead him out of the wagon. He climbed from the back and waited, until a tug at the chain on his collar caused him to move forward, the shackles and chains on his ankles preventing little more than a slow shuffling motion. It was hard to hold on to thoughts but he remembered that if he didn't wait, he would be beaten. If he moved too fast or too slow another beating. If he refused to move, another. The skin on his back, legs, buttocks, arms was a blanket of fire cloaking most of his body. It kept him coherent, anchored to his own form despite the persistent fog clinging to his mind._

 _He waited, on his knees, head bowed, as they drove an iron pinion with a ring on the end into the base of a large pine tree. They looped the chain from his collar through the ring and locked it in place. He could move no more than a yard from the tree. He could not fully stand. It didn't matter. The cold in his body warred with the fire of his wounds. He was having trouble hearing his bothers – the bitter drug she gave him pushing away thinking and forcing him to exist in a world defined by pain or absence of pain._

 _He waited, still kneeling until she came with food and water and put them on the ground beside him. She handed him the cup. He took it with both hands, but just held it. Knowing what drinking the bitter draught meant and weighing the punishment of not drinking._

"There is nothing of you left to whip," she said, her voice tinged with a genuine sorrow, "so if you disobey me, I will have to start taking pieces of your fingers. I can't sew those back on, I'm afraid."

 _He hated her. He believed her. He would obey her like the animal he was becoming. His chest tightened and for a long moment, he could not breathe._

 _"There is nothing I cannot fix," Aramis whispered._

 _"Death is not an option," Athos, steady as ever._

 _"Head before heart," D'Artagnan challenged._

 _He stared at the cup, knowing if he raised his eyes, she would know he wasn't broken . . . not yet. He would need his fingers for when he strangled her. He drank._

 _She took the cup from him and walked away, settling nearby the crackling fire beside her brother. He finished the food, already feeling the lethargy of the drugs seeping into his body. Someone took the bowls and dropped a thin blanket near him. He took it and drew it over his shoulders, curling up on his side for warmth, but trying not to aggravate his injuries. His back, buttocks and legs were a map of pain. Fresh wounds over ones she had sewn closed, knowing more sewing would come later. She had reopened some herself with her dagger, just to have the pleasure of sewing him again._

 _Their voices drifted past him and he tried to hold on to their words._

"We'll be there by tomorrow. I don't see why you are so worried," Benoit was smug as he poured himself more wine.

"That does not mean they are not following us," Celeste answered, refusing the wine he offered and instead taking up her needlepoint hoop. She was embroidering a set of linen handkerchiefs for her father, blood red poppies blooming at the edges. Her work was fine and delicate. She was pleased with the effort.

"How can they even know?" Benoit sneered, "We left no trace. No one to suspect us. They probably think he is dead anyway. Just another disappearance in the Court of Miracles."

"Do not be so smug," Celeste reprimanded, her attention fully focused on the pattern she worked, "Musketeers are well known for their determination. We must be prepared."

"What do you suggest then?" he was frustrated, she could tell by his tone. She put down her needlework and took his hand in hers.

"Benoit, you are an artist," she stroked his fingers, "You wield a whip such delicacy," she smiled at him with pride and warmth, "Let's just make sure we do not lose your canvas. Leave some men here in ambush. They can wait two days. By then, it will be too late even if they did figure it out. And we may lay some more musketeers in their graves by the time this is finished."

She could see Benoit struggling to accept her idea, he did not like to so easily acquiesce to the whims of his sister. She took his hand to her mouth, fervently kissing his knuckles and raising pleading blue eyes to his smoldering brown ones. She saw the moment he gave in and felt, as she always did, a small thrill as she claimed another tiny victory over his soul. She dipped her head in thanks and dropped his hand, releasing him so he could go and give the orders. Celeste picked up her embroidery but glanced over at the man huddled at the base of the tree. He was one of their finest pieces of work. Benoit's lust for blood and her love the needle were the perfect combination for breaking a man. Too much cruelty and they died, but just the right amount of pain and comfort and they became her creatures. Too bad they were not allowed to keep them. There was quite the collection of bodies fertilizing the vineyard, but the risk of being discovered was always too great to hold them for too long. But this time it would be different. Celeste returned her attention to the poppies, wondering if she could recreate the pattern on a man's skin.

 _"They think he's dead." The words sent a pain to his heart as sure as if she had shoved a stiletto between his ribs._

 _He listened, but the drug was taking over and the words slipping away. He felt the fog rising in his mind, struggled to hear the whispers of his brothers._

 _"We're looking," D'Artagnan promised but the sound was so small now._

 _He twisted his hands against the manacles, knowing his raw wrists would bleed again but hoping the pain would bring back his brothers' voices. He twisted and pulled until the blood trickled over his palms, but they stayed quiet. He was losing them. He was losing himself._

 _They think I'm dead._

 _There was only silence._

 _His hands were slick with blood now, but he reached forward in one last gesture of hope._

* * *

The three companions reached _Toutainville_ a few hours before dusk of the third day. They were only three hours from _Deauville_ but Athos decided on a stop at the tavern there nonetheless. It was likely that anyone going to _Deauville_ would have passed through the town and it was their only opportunity to try to find any more information. At the very least, they could learn what the locals had to say about the winery and the Varade family.

Not planning to spend the night, they tied the big Friesians to the hitch outside, pulling their weapons from the horses and setting them in their holsters. Athos found the stable boy and paid him to keep an eye while they were inside.

The door swung open with a creek, calling attention to the entrance of the three soldiers. They were intimidating there in the doorway, silhouetted by the last of the afternoon sun. The sparse crowd took pause as the men entered single file, grim from the road, hats slung low. Athos stepped up to the barkeep while Aramis and D'Artagnan took a table near the back. With a deliberate gesture, Aramis set his long musket on the table, then seated himself with his back to the wall, looking toward the door. D'Artagnan pulled up a stool and sat to his left, eyes scanning the other occupants, hoping their overly dramatic entrance would be enough to spook someone who had something to hide, or who had an issue with musketeers.

Athos pulled some coins from his purse and motioned to the barman.

"Wine and food," he said pushing two coins toward the man. The barkeep made to take the money but Athos stayed his hand, "And Information," he said lowly, pushing two more coins across the table. The barkeep considered a moment and then nodded his head. Athos released his hand and the man swept up the money.

"I'll bring you wine," he said gruffly, moving to get cups and the bottle.

Athos walked nonchalantly to the table and sat on the bench across from Aramis.

"Anything?" he asked quietly.

Aramis gave a slight nod of his head and lifted his chin in a nod toward the bar.

"The man on the end there," he said, cocking his head and looking up at Athos from under the brim of his hat, "has been trying to keep his eyes anywhere but on us since we walked in."

"Hmm," was Athos's response but before he could say more, the barkeep arrived with the wine and food. As he leaned over to serve them, Athos took the opportunity to quietly ask him some questions.

"We are looking for a man," he said, voice flat and emotionless, "that may have been abducted by the Varade family."

The barkeep gave a disgusted snort but shook his head, "No, no. Haven't seen the likes of them around here for over a fortnight."

"But you are not surprised that a man has been abducted," Athos pressed.

The bartender glanced around, then made a big show of wiping down the mugs and pouring the wine as he whispered, "Them lot's trouble. Always stories of people disappearin' over there." He lowered his voice even further, "They say the girl's a witch, turns the minds of men to her will."

"The girl?" Athos queried, raising a brow.

"Celeste. She manages the business. Her brother Benoit runs the winery."

Athos shared a glance with Aramis, as the information they had been piecing together began to be corroborated, "Have they been through here in the last few days?" he asked.

"No, not lately," the barkeep paused and scrunched up his face.

"But . . .?" Athos encouraged.

"Well they've hired extra hands to the vineyard," the barkeep said, "Them says there is a big shipment going out of Le Havre soon. Need the hands to bottle and pack the crates. Can't imagine they aren't around for that." A girl appeared at the table with bowls of stew for each of them. The barkeep paused until she finished serving them. The barkeep picked up the bottle of wine and leaned in to fill Athos's cup. He whispered, "Man at the end of the bar, that's one of their foremen."

Athos nodded his thanks and quietly passed the man another coin before he walked back to the bar. The barkeep had identified the same man that had caught Aramis's eye earlier. Odd that the foreman would be in town with so much work happening at the winery.

"What are we waiting for?" D'Artagnan was twitchy, his leg vibrating under the table. "They have to be at the winery."

"They've gone to a lot of trouble to cover their tracks," Athos said, placing a hand on D'Artagnan's wrist, "There is no reason to think they would not take some precautions to ensure their prize." Athos gave a slight twist to his head and indicated over his shoulder, "I can't believe it is a coincidence that the foreman of the very place we seek is seated in the most likely place we would stop."

D'Artagnan bit his lip, but nodded in agreement.

"Athos," Aramis said, not moving from his relaxed position, "it seems our friend the foreman is leaving."

The three soldiers left the tavern shortly after the foreman did, giving him enough of a head start so that he would not assume he was being followed. He set out on the road toward _Deauville_ as expected, kicking his mount up to a fast canter as soon as he was clear of the stables and giving no notice to the three men emerging from the tavern just as he was leaving.

One way or the other, Athos assumed they would be riding into some kind of trouble soon and had even considered telling a still recuperating D'Artagnan to stay behind to spare him further injury, but Aramis had provided an acceptable solution. As they mounted up they passed all but two of their pistols to the young Gascon, each keeping just one in their own holsters. With strict orders to D'Artagnan to stay mounted no matter the circumstances, they proceeded toward _Deauville_ a discrete distance behind the foreman.

* * *

Athos signaled a halt when the man ahead pulled up his horse and moved off the road toward a copse of trees.

"That is certainly not the road to the winery," Aramis said flatly. "What do you suppose he is doing in the woods?"

"Nothing good," Athos answered, eyes scanning the road ahead for any other signs of people. "It's a quiet stretch out here – a good place to make camp outside of town if you did not wish to be noticed.

"Or a for an ambush if you were so inclined," Aramis added, a grim smile crossing his face. Athos knew the days of worry and fear about their missing comrade were about to come to a boiling point. They were on edge and tired of inaction. This was not going to be pretty.

Athos wheeled his horse around to face D'Artagnan, the young man's countenance determined but his face pale. The three days of riding had not provided much opportunity for the Gascon to truly rest or heal. Still, it was clear that D'Artagnan was not going to let his previous injuries deter him.

"Wait until we are out of sight," Athos instructed, "then follow the path that the foreman took into the woods. If it is an attack, they are not likely to be guarding from the rear, considering they think they are surprising us."

"Move quietly, and find a good vantage point," Aramis advised, "Stay concealed as best as possible. You create more confusion that way if they are not sure where the shots are coming from."

"I know," D'Artagnan replied, "but I'm not as good a shot as you. I need to be able to see my target." A small smile played at the Gascon's lips.

"You will do fine," Aramis said, clasping a hand to his friend's shoulder, "Kill shots are not necessary, just go for maximum damage and chaos. We have no idea how many are waiting for us, but if all goes well, your sudden appearance from behind should seem like a larger counter attack than it is."

"Maximum chaos," D'Artagnan gave an affirmative nod, "Got it."

They took a moment to adjust their sheaths and frogs and re-check the pistols.

"Don't forget," Athos cautioned them, "we need one alive to question." Aramis clenched his jaw and turned his head away from Athos's gaze. "Just one Aramis, that's all I ask, just one," Athos said with a mirthless smile. The slight dip of Aramis's head was enough acknowledgment for Athos. They turned together to move down the road, but Athos paused again to look back to D'Artagnan.

"I mean it, don't get off that horse," he admonished his protégé. D'Artagnan shook his head and gave Athos a soft smile.

"I would never dream of disobeying your orders," he said innocently. Athos snorted and turned back to the road, kicking up to a trot to come apace with Aramis.

"I should have left him at the tavern," Athos said quietly as they set their horses to walk down the road.

"Probably more dangerous there than with us and besides he would never have stayed behind," Aramis answered. His outward demeanor was calm and relaxed, but Athos could see the intensity of his gaze as his eyes flicked toward the side of the road, looking to catch a sign of an impending attack. "Besides," the marksman added, "he needs to be part of this as much as we do."

Athos had to acknowledge his friend was right. The desire to bring Porthos home was an unrelenting urge that to this point had been given no satisfaction and the days of endless searching and riding were taking an emotional toll on all of them. Despite any admonishments of "head over heart" Athos knew they all felt liked corked bottles ready to explode. As men of action, they needed to feel bones breaking under their hands to know they were serving justice to their friend's abductors.

"What if we are wrong?" Aramis asked softly, not taking his gaze from the road, "What if this is all a coincidence, fueled by our conjectures." Aramis swallowed thickly and shifted his gaze to Athos, 'What if Porthos is not there?"

Athos could see a glint of desperation in Aramis's brown eyes. The marksman had been uncharacteristically reserved and stoic during their travels and Athos knew it had been a defense against the fear that had been rising in him. Aramis was asking for assurances that Athos knew he could not make, but looking at the appeal in his friend's gaze, Athos could not deny him what he most needed.

"The Varades are behind this," Athos said, voice full of reassurance, "We are not wrong. We're going to bring him home." Athos had no opportunity to discover if his words were enough to give Aramis some hope as the marksman suddenly stiffened in his saddle.

"Look sharp," he hissed, his eyes trained on something in the tree line that Athos could not see. The road had narrowed as it pushed from open fields to a stretch of woods – the perfect spot for an ambush.

Aramis's sharp eyes gave them enough warning to have their weapons on the draw just as six men broke cover from the trees. The musketeers kicked their horses to quickly close the gap between them and their enemy, lying low over the necks of their mounts to avoid the first round of bullets coming from the attacker's pistols. As the last pistol crack echoed away, Aramis was already upright in the saddle again, taking aim at the nearest man and dropping him with a precision shot to the head. Athos was a beat behind, but no less accurate as his bullet found its mark in the chest of another. They were on the other four men before the attackers could reload their pistols, hopefully giving the well-trained musketeers a likely advantage with sword and dagger over the hired thugs they were probably facing. Four was a number the two of them could handle, but when three more broke from the woods, Athos and Aramis spared a fast glance. They were in danger of being overrun.

Aramis flung himself from his horse, catching two men and bringing them both crashing to the ground with him while Athos sliced through the middle of another before dismounting and engaging with two more. The men had skill, probably hired mercenaries. Athos was quickly consumed in the deadly dance of parry and thrust, block and turn, fighting to keep two skilled men at bay and knowing two more had just emerged from the woods. He was aware of shots firing nearby, but had no opportunity to look for the source. Finally dispatching one opponent with a backhanded thrust of his main gauche into the throat, he spun around to face the other and caught a glimpse of Aramis in combat with two other men, a third coming up from behind.

Athos started to shout a warning when a boot caught him in the gut, knocking the wind from him as he stumbled backward and onto the ground, losing hold of his sword. A large, beefy man wielding an axe filled his entire field of vision as Athos scrambled backward, his hands searching for something he could use to parry a blow. An inhuman howl sounded behind him and something large crashed through the branches. Two more shots rang out, much closer this time. The giant man's face suddenly went slack as a red stain spread from his chest. He pitched forward and Athos was just able to scuttle out of the way as the man fell lifelessly to the ground. Retrieving his rapier, Athos stood, hurriedly looking to where Aramis had been fighting. In the middle of the clearing was D'Artagnan, still seated on his horse, yelling wildly and shooting at anything that moved. Men were running now, away from the maniac on the horse, while Athos surged forward, shouting.

"Aramis!" his voice echoed through the trees.

D'Artagnan spurred the horse toward the road, chasing off the last of the fleeing mercenaries, revealing Aramis on the ground, pummeling a man pinned beneath him.

"Aramis!" Athos shouted again, making his way over to the other musketeer. Aramis's face and arms were streaked with blood and Athos could hear him grunting with the exertion of hitting the man below him. There was no weapon in his hand, just Aramis's bloody fists beating the man over and over. Not man, Athos corrected himself, corpse. The body beneath the marksman was dead.

"Aramis! Stop!" Athos called, trying to stop the next blow by grabbing his friend by the shoulder. Aramis rose and spun to face the new threat, a guttural cry tearing from his throat. He raised his fist to strike and Athos caught Aramis's fist in his own hand. "Aramis!" he called again, watching for a sign of recognition in his brother's wild eyes. Aramis didn't register who was before him as he raised his other hand and smashed Athos across the side of the head. Ears ringing, Athos went down on one knee, raising his arms to defend against the next blow and desperately calling out to Aramis again. Aramis grabbed his dagger, arm raised high to strike when his eyes widened and he suddenly froze.

"Athos," he said, sides heaving with exertion, his breathing raspy and uncontrolled. Aramis dropped his arm limply to his side, glancing down at the dagger in his hand and tossing it away as if it now burned him. "Oh God, Athos," he nearly moaned, locking his gaze to Athos's before suddenly squinting his eyes shut tight and doubling over. Athos was on his feet in an instant, arms wrapped around Aramis's shoulders as he retched up the contents of his stomach. There wasn't much to come up, but Athos held him steady until the dry heaves stopped, then pulled him up by his doublet and led him several paces from the scene of the skirmish, pushing Aramis to lean against the trunk of a thick tree. Aramis's head rolled back, and he panted, trying to control his breathing.

Athos was concerned for his friend, worried at his loss of control, frightened that he might be injured but what came out was anger, "What the hell happened?" Athos snapped, pushing Aramis back against the tree trunk when he tried to evade his question, "What were you thinking?"

"He said he was dead!" Aramis yelled back, his voice ragged and shuddering, "Said they gutted him and left him to rot," Aramis screwed his eyes shut but not before two great tears tracked down his cheeks. He balled his hands into fists, banging them into the trunk of the tree and looking on the verge of collapse. Athos grabbed him by the shirt collar, pressing him again back against the tree trunk.

"Aramis, look at me" Athos ordered, giving the marksman a little shake, "Look at me!" Athos held Aramis pinned to the tree until he raised his face, brown sorrowful eyes fighting back tears. "He's not dead!" Athos shouted, then swallowed, getting his own breathing under control. "He's not dead," he said more calmly, "Why fight us if he was dead? Why go to all this trouble to hide him just to kill him? There is no scenario where Porthos is dead. None. There is no room for that. Do you hear me?" Athos's voice was colored with deadly intent. He gave Aramis another shake and was rewarded with a small nod, Aramis's lips pressed together as if he was afraid to speak.

Athos released Aramis and took a step away, pulling off his hat and raking a hand through his hair. They could not afford to fall apart like this. They were all angry, all frustrated, and yelling at each other was not going to help. Aramis had lost control in battle and it probably terrified him more than it did Athos. He spared a glance to the marksman who had slid down the tree to sit with his head in hands. Aramis's entire demeanor seemed defeated. Athos's anger broke apart, replaced by compassion for his tortured friend. Worry and fear were affecting them all. He squatted down in front of his friend, his brother. What Aramis needed now was Athos's strength to overcome what he had just done, not his anger.

"It's alright," Athos said gently, pulling the marksman toward him. Aramis let his forehead rest against Athos's shoulder and Athos took him in a light embrace. "You're alright." he reassured his friend, thumping him on the back. He shifted his grip to put one hand on the back of Aramis's neck, "We're going to bring him home," Athos whispered. Aramis slipped his arms up to grip Athos by the shoulders and weakly nodded his head.

"I'm sorry," Aramis let out in a ragged whisper.

"I know," Athos answered back simply, "I know." They held that position until Athos wasn't certain who was comforting who. Aramis drew a deep breath, his body seeming to settle somehow as his grip on Athos gained in strength. Athos felt a light hand on his shoulder, as D'Artagnan crouched down to join the two of them, seeming to instinctively know that his friends had regained their composure. Athos looked up to give D'Artagnan a slight but grateful smile and was met with a steady and determined gaze that spoke of the deep strength he knew his young friend possessed. Rather than being frightened by the emotional display of the two men, D'Artagnan had a steeliness to his gaze that promised strength and support.

"Aramis," the young man said softly but insistently, "how much of that blood is yours?"

Aramis gave a soft chuckle, and raised his head, dropping his arms from Athos's shoulders, "Very little of it I think, my friend." D'Artagnan raised an eyebrow, silently expressing his disbelief, and held out a damp cloth to the marksman. Aramis took it with a grateful nod, wiping the cloth over his face and neck.

"Here," D'Artagnan fished into his doublet and retrieved a flask that he pressed toward Athos. Athos took it with little fanfare and after a deep swallow let out a contented sigh before passing it to Aramis. Athos felt a surge of warmth in his chest, not just from the brandy. Their youngest might also be their strongest just now. His unwavering faith in his friends meant he had the least doubts about their success. Whatever fear he felt, he had stopped expressing it as soon as Athos as come up with a theory and a plan. Athos spared the boy a smile that went unseen as he watched D'Artagnan fuss over the cuts and scrapes on Aramis's hands. He'd brought the bandages too, and was gently winding a roll over Aramis's knuckles, tight enough to protect the abrasions, but not so tight as the marksmen could not use his pistols if necessary. Buoyed by the strength and comfort of his friends, Athos pushed himself to his feet.

"Let's see if there is anyone left alive to interrogate," Athos said, his trademark dry humor sending a slight barb in Aramis's direction. He hoped the marksman would take it as intended, knowing it to be both chastisement and forgiveness that Athos sent his way.

"Don't worry," Aramis said, as he reached up take Athos's offered hand to help pull him to his feet, "I'm sure I left you one, just as ordered. You know how obedient I am." The quirky smirk on Aramis's face let Athos know that his friend was alright, back in control of his emotions and ready to get back to work. They started to walk away but were stopped by a word from D'Artagnan, still crouched to the ground gathering up the things he had brought over.

"Look at this," he said in soft disbelief, stretching out a hand toward the tree that Aramis had been leaning on. Both men turned back, bending to see what D'Artagnan was gesturing to in the fading evening light. At the base of the tree, traced in a shaky hand using what might have been blood as ink, was a crude outline of a fleur-de-lis. Porthos had left them a sign.


	14. Chapter 14

_A/N: Thank you for the kind reviews, favorites and follows. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. Many, many thanks to Issai for continuing to be my stalwart, detail-oriented beta-reader. This story would not be possible without her. The mistakes are all mine._

* * *

Marcus coughed again, expelling yet another glob of blood and spittle that had gathered in his mouth. He might have spat a tooth the first time. He was seated, hands roughly tied in front of him, his back propped against a tree. His head pounded and one eye was swollen shut. He supposed he was lucky not to have been run through with a rapier or shot by the lunatic who had been on the horse, but he didn't really feel lucky trussed up like a goose and suffering from having had his face smashed in by the pommel of a main gauche.

He watched the three men through his good eye as they huddled by the base of the tree at the other side of the clearing. The boy had been the one on the horse, screaming and shooting wildly. He had laughed manically at the men he sent scattering into the woods, white teeth flashing in horrific glee. He assumed the boy was feeble-minded, but spending company with the other two soldiers might drive anyone to some form of insanity.

He had seen the curly-haired one beat one of the men to death with his bare hands, not stopping until the others intervened. He could not fathom what darkness could be in a man's heart to let him do that. It was as if the devil had hold of his soul, possessed by a demon and driven to gruesome murder. Marcus would have crossed himself if his hands were not bound.

The third one was perhaps the worst though. No outward sign to show he was capable of even the slightest human emotion. He killed calmly, methodically as if the men he cut down were nothing more than straw targets lined up for his sword practice. Marcus couldn't help shuddering, remembering the cold, empty eyes that bore right into his soul just before the man had slammed his main gauche into the side of his head. He wasn't sure why the men had let him live, but he considered maybe death would have been a better option as all three turned grim faces in his direction. He started to struggle again against his ropes, even though he knew it was hopeless, as the soldiers slowly made their way across the clearing to stand before him.

"That eye looks painful," the curly-haired one said, his voice a surprisingly soothing baritone. "Athos, did you do this?" he asked, looking at one of the men.

The steely-eyed one, Athos, gave a non-committal shrug causing the other man to tsk at him disapprovingly. "We really should bandage this," the man said, reaching out to lay a hand on Marcus's shoulder. The touch was gentle and the man looked genuinely concerned. Marcus took a calming breath and offered the man a tentative smile of gratitude which the other man seemed to return.

"Aramis," the young crazy one said, squatting next to him "Why should we bandage him when we are only going to kill him, hmm?" the young man cocked his head and gave the one called Aramis a cold smile, "Just a waste of supplies." Marcus looked frantically to Aramis, hoping for some reassurance, but the man just nodded his agreement to his companion.

"Sorry, for that," Aramis said, patting him on the shoulder, "But as usual my pragmatic young friend is correct. Bandages won't do you much good."

"Can we get on with it," Athos intoned icily.

Aramis gave him one more smile and then he and the young one grabbed him by the armpits and hauled him to his feet, his back pressed against the trunk of the tree. They held him in place as Athos stepped to face him, inches separating him from the soulless man. Marcus felt his legs begin to tremble.

"Who are you and who are you working for," he asked softly.

Marcus licked dry lips and let out a shaky breath. If they didn't know, he could still maybe get himself out of this situation. "I'm Jean Blanchet, I'm a weaver in the village. I'm not working for anyone."

"Wrong!" the crazy one yelled in his ear. Marcus flinched from the sound then felt a prick below his ear. He glanced to his left and caught the glint of a steel dagger and the gleeful gaze of the young maniac. His legs trembled more and if not for the men holding him up he knew he would have collapsed like a bag of potatoes.

"That's a wrong answer," Aramis said with disappointment, hot breath tickling his other ear. "You are a foreman at the winery and you work for the Varades. Wrong answers have a cost," Marcus felt the dagger the boy held press more firmly under his ear and couldn't help but let out a small whimper.

"I'm afraid, friend," Aramis said sadly, a hand again resting gently on his shoulder, "that your wrong answer just cost you your ear." Marcus felt a searing pain as the tip of the dagger pricked his skin and immediately began struggling against the men holding him.

"No! No!" he pleaded, "I'll tell the truth, I swear! I swear!" Marcus's breath was ragged and his heart raced in his chest.

"D'Artagnan, stop," Athos ordered. Marcus let out a relieved moan as the blade was pulled from his neck. Athos stepped in closely to him again.

"You understand the consequences now for lying," Athos said flatly. Marcus didn't trust himself to speak yet so nodded his head in agreement. "Good," Athos said, "Let's begin again," he said, then lowered his voice to a near growl, "and realize I will show no further mercy." Marcus whimpered and then felt it, the warm trickle down his leg as in his terror he released his bladder. All four men glanced down at the puddle forming at Marcus's feet. Athos sighed and shook his head, taking a generous step back.

"So you work for Varade," Athos said, his unrelenting stare so compelling that Marcus could entertain no thought of looking away, "Why did you ambush us?"

"The young Master thought we might be followed," Marcus said, "He left me and ten men to wait for any suspicious strangers on the road."

"And what made us so suspicious?" Aramis whispered in his ear.

"Musketeers," he said, nervously licking his lips again, "He said to be particularly on watch for Musketeers."

"What was he protecting?" Athos demanded.

"The cargo. He was worried about the cargo," Marcus was being truthful, but he began to fidget as he hoped that answer would be enough.

"What was so special about this _cargo_ that Varade thought it would draw the attention of Musketeers?" Aramis hissed in his ear.

"Well . . . it's . . ." Marcus stuttered, his whole body starting to tremble now.

"D'Artagnan," Athos said flatly, and Marcus felt the dagger once again prick behind his ear.

"A man!" Marcus blurted out, "They took a man from Paris! It was wrong, I know," Marcus was whimpering, blurting out whatever came to his mind, "But they forced me. They are cruel and I was afraid of what they'd do to me, to my family, if I said no. I didn't want any part of it! You have to believe me!" Marcus cried, twisting his head to try and find sympathy from just one of the men. The hard look on their faces gave him no hope.

"How far ahead of us are they? When will they arrive at the winery?" Athos demanded.

"They are not going to the winery," Marcus whimpered, "They are going to _Le Harve_."

" _Le Harve_?" Athos asked, a look of confusion crossing his face, "why?"

"Well the shipment," Marcus said, assuming they had known.

"What shipment?" Athos seemed to be losing his patience. Marcus felt the sweat beading on his forehead, afraid of what would happen if the men did not like his answer.

"It's a large shipment of wine, the biggest of the year. We were heading to meet the ship. It sails tomorrow morning."

"Which ship?" Athos intoned, waiting for an answer. Marcus licked his lips, thinking, but apparently not fast enough, "Which ship?" Athos growled, grabbing hold of is shirt and pulling him close.

"I don't know," Marcus said, prompting Athos to shake him and slam him against the tree, "I don't know!" Marcus cried again. "Truly! I don't. I have no reason to lie now that I've told you everything else. They will kill me when they find out I betrayed them. I beg you, I told you everything I know! Please don't kill me!" and Marcus couldn't stop the sobs that suddenly started to wrack his overly distressed body. He blubbered like a small boy too distraught to hear anything else they were saying to him. Suddenly the hands holding him let go, and slipped down the tree trunk and curled on his side, crying and whimpering and begging for his life. It took him a moment to realize the two men had walked away to join the third in hushed conversation. Probably plotting exactly how they would kill him. Marcus moaned and closed his eyes. He really couldn't take this anymore.

* * *

" _Le Havre_? This makes no sense," D'Artagnan's frustration was barely contained. All of the information they had pieced together had been corroborated by the foreman, but instead of feeling reassured that they were on the right track, he was now sending them in the opposite direction of their original destination. Could they trust him? They would be delayed for hours if this was a ruse to throw them off the right path. He looked expectantly from Athos to Aramis, hoping one of the more experienced soldiers would have a better answer.

Aramis for his part just looked grim. His normally friendly countenance was set in a stony mask more reminiscent of Athos but the look in his eye, that gave D'Artagnan true pause. The confident marksman looked worried, almost lost, as his eyes pleaded too for an answer. D'Artagnan found it unnerving to see his comrade so nearly undone.

Athos stood still, hands on hips, head cocked and looking toward the ground. He was thinking and seemed completely oblivious to the two of them, but D'Artagnan knew him well enough to know that he was more than acutely aware of Aramis's distress. Stubborn pride would not let him look his men in the eye until he had an answer to give them. D'Artagnan let out a deep exhale and shifted his weight from foot to foot. He hated waiting.

"We could split up," D'Artagnan offered, although the words fell flat as soon as he let them out.

"No," Athos said decisively, "Based on those mercenaries, it will take all of us if it comes to a fight. We need to make a choice. Search the bodies. Let's see if there is anything else that can point us in the right direction.

The men spread out, working quickly but meticulously to go through the pockets of the dead, and the items left behind by those that had run off. Aramis searched the saddle bags of the few remaining horses. D'Artagnan found small pouches of coin, which he gathered up, assuming it was payment for their services to attack the Musketeers on the road. After a few minutes of searching, they gathered back together to see what they had found.

"There is nothing here to help us," Aramis said, chewing on his bottom lip as if to keep his emotions locked firmly inside. D'Artagnan felt a pang of worry for his friend. They were all worried about Porthos, but he had never seen Aramis this affected by any danger they had faced together. It was the unknown that was grating on all of them. D'Artagnan knew Athos was just as concerned, he just had a more practiced mask when it came to hiding his feelings. With Aramis, the suffering was something they could all feel.

"I found this," Athos said, holding out his palm. D'Artagnan looked at the tin coin in Athos's hand and recognition immediately trigged in his mind. He starting fishing in his ammunition pouch while Aramis fidgeted to get something out of his breast pocket. Two hands appeared almost simultaneously next to Athos's, each holding an identical tin coin with an image of a lady on a swing embossed beneath raised lettering.

" _La Chatte Secrète_ ," Aramis said, a slight smile playing on his lips and an odd look in his eye, "Interesting how this has come up for all of us."

"Where did you get those?" Athos asked.

"I found it when I searched the bodies at the Court," D'Artagnan answered, "I had forgotten all about it."

"Young Miss Varade gave it to me when I questioned her at the estate as a token to carry into battle," Aramis smirked, "She stole it from her older brother. I doubt she knew what it was."

"Well, neither do I. What is it?" D'Artagnan asked earnestly. Athos raised an eyebrow in surprise and Aramis shook his head with a small chuckle. D'Artagnan felt a blush rise to his cheeks. Apparently, his question had been foolish, but he had no idea why. Aramis put a hand to D'Artagnan's shoulder and held up the tin coin.

"This, my young friend, is a brothel coin, and it is doubtful that you ever saw one among the wholesome farmsteads of Gascony," Aramis said kindly. D'Artagnan felt a further flush on his cheeks as he wanted to ask more about but was embarrassed to bring up how little he knew. Luckily, Aramis continued to explain.

"The proprietress of the establishment has them pressed as tokens to distribute to their most frequent patrons. While it is not used for payment for services, it does entitle the bearer to some . . . um," Aramis paused to clear his throat, searching for the right words, ". . . extra attention." D'Artagnan was curious about what that could possibly mean, but Athos interjected before the conversation could become more specific,

"So we have found these among the mercenaries, and we know one to belong to Varade. It seems we may have found our thieves den," Athos said.

"It would be a good place to organize from," Aramis agreed, "There are small private rooms for some activities, and larger rooms for, other things," Aramis shared for D'Artagnan's benefit, "A perfect place to manage illegal activities and to recruit help. They could not have hired these mercenaries unless they were in a port like _Le Havre._ It's likely someone at the brothel will know Varade's plans."

"But a mercenary won't just tell you," D'Artagnan said, "We'd have to question everyone. We don't have time for that."

"I don't need to find a patron," Aramis replied, "I just need to talk to the ladies. You would be surprised how much information men will share in the presence of a scantily clad woman with no thought that the lady might have keen mind to go with her other more obvious assets," Aramis gave D'Artagnan a cheeky smile, "Trust me, I can find out what we need to know."

"Our road is leading to _Le Havre_ ," Athos said, taking in the both of them with a determined gaze, "If Porthos's abduction is connected with the shipment that departs tomorrow morning, then we are almost out of time." Athos pursed his lips and massaged the back of his neck, a gesture D'Artagnan had come to recognize as a sign the man was plotting something. Athos's tactical thinking was as legendary as his swordsmanship and it gave D'Artagnan a boost of confidence to know his mentor always came through with a plan.

"D'Artagnan and I will go to the Portmaster and search the shipping schedule. Aramis, you will pay a visit to _La Chatte Secrète_ and see what you can find out about Varade's plans. _La Havre_ is a large port and unless we can narrow it down, we will never find the ship before it sails tomorrow," Athos looked determined and his confident tone buoyed D'Artagnan's spirit. They were close. They were going to be able to find Porthos.

"Get the horses, take the weapons," Athos ordered, "Get ready to ride hard." D'Artagnan didn't miss the cold smile that Aramis shared with Athos before dipping his head in acknowledgment and moving toward the horses. D'Artagnan though was surprised at Athos's choice.

"Shouldn't I go with Aramis?" he asked. "If Varade is there it is far more dangerous than the Port Master's office."

"D'Artagnan," Athos said fondly, putting a hand on his shoulder, "Visiting a brothel is something best done on one's own, and is something Aramis is quite familiar with. You will be better off with me as we will have a lot of records to sift through to find the correct ship."

D'Artagnan considered Athos's words, confusion building in his mind. He knew he was a bit naive, but he had thought Aramis to be an honorable man and while a bit of a libertine, certainly not one to frequent the beds of prostitutes. He gave a little sigh, prompting an inquisitive look from Athos, wanting to know what was troubling him.

"I didn't think that Aramis . . . I mean, all those nights, he was going to a brothel?" D'Artagnan felt his throat tighten as the word escaped. To his surprise, Athos gave him one of his rare, genuine smiles.

"D'Artagnan," he chuckled, "Aramis doesn't frequent brothels. He was raised in one," and he gave D'Artagnan a little pat on the shoulder as he walked off – leaving D'Artagnan staring after him, his mouth open in a wide "O" at what he'd just heard. Obviously, there was more to these men than he had ever suspected.

Athos turned his attention back to the foreman sniveling on the ground where they had left him.

"You," he didn't have to raise his voice much to get the man's notice, "how far ahead of us are they?"

"They broke camp this morning," the foreman answered, his voice trembling. Apparently, he still thought he was going to die.

"And you still say you cannot remember the name of the ship?" Athos said, approaching him, as he drew his main gauche. D'Artagnan had to fight back a smirk so as not to give away their deception. He was fairly certain Athos was simply going to cut the man loose as they did not have time to spare to bring him back to authorities in _Toutanville_ and bringing him to _Le Havre_ would only just slow them down. Still, Athos was going to get everything he could from this man before they left. Aramis joined him with a wink, handing him the reins of his horse, and leading his and Athos's as well.

"No, no, I don't know!" the man whined, panicking at the drawn blade, "I'm just the foreman here. I oversee the winery and the workers, get the bottling and packing done on time. I don't know anything about the shipments!" The man was starting to tremble violently as Athos squatted in front of him, dagger raised. "I know where it's going! I know! _Saint-Pierre!_ This is the finest wine, we always send it to _Saint-Pierre_! Please, please, that's all I know!"

 _Saint-Pierre_. D'Artagnan felt his heart drop to his stomach. The pieces shifted into place like a mechanism in a clock and D'Artagnan felt true fear rise and catch in his throat. He looked to Aramis, and saw it there too as the marksman's face went pale. If they put Porthos on that ship, they were sending him to face the man that believed it was Porthos's fault that he was exiled there. Far from French soil and the reach of the Musketeers, Porthos would be in grave danger. But it was even worse than the vengeance that one man might wreak on the Musketeer.

 _Saint-Pierre_ was one of the busiest colonies of France, and there was a brisk trade that had made many Frenchmen, along with the crown, incredibly wealthy. Tobacco, sugar, exotic spices, colorful fabrics and dyes – and slaves. _Saint-Pierre_ was part of the slaving community and their dark-skinned brother was about to be smuggled off with the morning tide.

* * *

 _A/N: Brothel coins (or tokens) are a real thing but most of the references I found for them were from a later time period – late 1700s, and 1800s. They were used in the Americas in the 1800s and it's not uncommon to find them in antique stores in the Midwest and West of the United States. I also found references to Roman brothel coins so although I couldn't find any specific reference to them in 1630s Paris, they certainly had the capability of making stamped tin and there is no reason they couldn't have been in use there. Tin, by the way, is one of oldest metals used by man, its usage dating back to the bronze age._


	15. Chapter 15

_A/N: I'm sorry to be a day behind in posting, but as a consolation, it's a doubly long chapter._

 _Warnings in this section for discussion of torture and cruelty toward women, although it is not graphic, it is highly suggested. Also, we all know what goes on in a brothel . . ._

 _Many, many thanks for the reviews and encouragement. I try to answer everyone but if I missed you it is my busy schedule, not my indifference. Comments mean so much :) My gratitude as always for Issai who makes sure the details are right and the characters ring true. I could not do this without her._

* * *

 _He had been sleeping perhaps when the cart stopped. He wasn't always sure if he slept, if he dreamed. Awake or asleep she was always there – sometimes just around the edges, sometimes humming over him as she sewed up the slashes in his skin, or using her thin little knife to carve light tracings on his chest. Cuts, scars, sutures, lashes - the only punctuation to his existence beyond the light or dark of the sky or the stop and start of the cart. He knew he ate but was always hungry. He slept but never felt refreshed, only heavy and fevered. He drank what was in the cup, even his water laced with bitterness from the drug she gave him. He knew he had heard her name, but it wouldn't keep hold in his mind._

 _He had few thoughts left other than pain and its degrees. The sharp sting of the lashes, the piercing stab of the needle, the rough scrubbing she sometimes gave his ragged back, or the dull ache in his side from the wound that was closed but not really healing._

 _The beatings had nothing to do with him really. He had stopped fighting, stopped speaking some time ago. But they would drag him from the cart and string him up in a tree just so they could whip his thighs, or his shoulder, or his back again and then she would get out her needle and thread, salves and ointment. Even his pain was meaningless to them – their whims were the staccato rhythm of his existence._

 _So when the cart stopped and he was dragged out again, he was groggy, listless, and barely aware that his bare feet were on cobblestones and not the soft earth of fields and forest. He opened his eyes but did not raise his head as he had learned to do so meant an invitation to a whipping. He saw crates and barrels stacked, heard the mournful cries of hungry gulls and smelled salt and fish in the air. He was near water, in a city, close to other people but all he could think of was where were they going to string him up when there wasn't a tree?_

 _Someone yanked the chain threaded through his collar and he shuffled forward, feet no longer shackled but his footsteps unsure. He was led into one of the buildings, the coolness refreshing on his hot skin. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light he realized he was in a large storehouse, barrels piled up nearly to the ceiling on rough-hewn wooden racks. They made their way through the large building toward the back, where some light came through barred windows set high in the tall walls. He recognized a stable – the smell of hay and the stamp and snort of horses penetrating his mind. Draft horses, for pulling the wagons with the barrels, he thought._

 _He was roughly shoved into one of the stalls, stumbling forward and impacting the wall on the far side. He slid downwards, giving no protest other than a small grunt of pain as his abused skin scraped along rough wood. But the straw in the stall was fresh and clean, and much more inviting than the thin blankets of the cart. And it wasn't moving – the constant motion of the cart had wreaked havoc on his sense of balance. He hunkered down in the straw, surprised they let him stay there._

 _"Feed him," she said, her voice commanding. She moved away in a swish of skirts and someone slammed shut the thick wooden door to the stall. "Get the barrels stacked and tell the blacksmith to make ready," he heard her light voice as moved away from the stall, "everything needs to be marked for shipment tonight. We sail at dawn."_

 _His eyes drifted closed, registering vaguely that the chain on his collar had not been fastened to anything. It didn't matter – he hurt too much to move and with no one urging him to do so, he chose to find solace in sleep. His brothers had been quiet a long time. She said they thought he was dead and as his torment continued, Porthos had no reason to think otherwise._

* * *

They rode hard for _Le Havre_ , still reaching the town well after night had fallen. From their last visit, they knew where to find the Port Master's home, near the quays and toward the north-eastern part of the city. As they wended their way through the dark narrow streets, the three companions maintained an unsettling silence between them. After days of uncertainty, frustration and inaction they were close to finding Porthos but also close to losing him. Whatever fears or worries each man had, they chose not to voice them. There was no longer room for doubt or guessing. To save Porthos, they would have to act boldly, trust their instincts and support their partnership. It had to be enough because if that ship sailed with Porthos on board, the life of a slave on _Saint-Pierre_ would be the equivalent of a death sentence.

Reaching their destination, D'Artagnan felt a deep weariness as he forced himself down from his horse. He was full of saddle aches and lingering exhaustion from the fight in the forest earlier in the day. He knew he wasn't fully recovered from the beating he had taken in the court. The bruised and damaged ribs protested at the constant motion in the saddle and the rough ground they'd been sleeping on. The wound in his shoulder flared whenever he did much more than raise his hand from his lap.

He hadn't particularly hidden his discomfort from Aramis, but like his comrades, he was not one to complain. He saw how stiffly Athos sat his saddle and how Aramis was given to absentmindedly rubbing at the joint of his bruised shoulder, but no one suggested they slow down. He had helped them clean the cuts and scrapes from the skirmish that day. Athos was sporting a black eye. Aramis, along with his bruised shoulder and smashed knuckles, had a thin gash behind his ear and a shallow slash across the forearm. Nothing troubling, nothing needing suturing, but still small things added up. They were all tired, all a little damaged, and all emotionally unsteady.

D'Artagnan held the reins of their mounts as Athos banged on the door, Aramis at his side. It took two rounds of knocking for the Port Master to open the front door. They had met du Foy when seeking to locate the wayward merchant Bonnaire, and later, when they had made their arrangements to ship the would-be slave trader off to a Spanish prison, it was with du Foy's unofficial blessing as he had approved the berth for the Spanish ship. The portly man opened the door in robe and nightcap but quickly ushered them in as soon as he recognized Athos. D'Artagnan heard him calling to the servants and the stable boy as he led the horses around to the carriage house.

He started loosening the girth strap on Aramis's horse as the towheaded stable boy took care charge of Athos's mount. D'Artagnan knew he didn't need to stay and help, but he liked being around the animals and having a little time mostly to himself and his own thoughts. He was still finding his place with the musketeers. The jovial and easygoing Porthos balanced Athos's intensity and Aramis's moods and they worked well as a foursome. D'Artagnan felt he fit in easily. But the last few days he found himself sometimes on the periphery, sensing deeper forces were at play than he was privy too. He was the newest member of the group, but no less concerned for their missing friend. But something unspoken was happening below the surface with Athos and Aramis and D'Artagnan felt that as open as they had been with him, this was something he could not touch. He had given them space, managed the mounts, collected the firewood and contributed as best he could to making things easy. He knew his presence was unifying in some way, that tensions were eased when he was there. D'Artagnan felt it was the least he could do with his friends as they had done so much for him.

Finished with the horses, D'Artagnan rejoined Athos and Aramis in the Port Master's office. His desk was already littered with charts and timetables as Athos and du Foy poured over the paperwork looking for clues as to the ship they sought. Aramis stood at the end of the table, fidgeting with his hat as du Foy's two daughters tried to catch his attention while thy set out refreshments on the side table. Madame du Foy shooed the girls out before they had the opportunity to focus their affections too intently on the pensive musketeer.

"D'Artagnan," Athos said, not looking up from the pages in front of him, "Take that large ledger and make a list of all of the ships currently in port that frequented _Saint-Pierre_ in the last three months. I'm looking at the tax records for wine exports. We'll see which ships are on both lists." D'Artagnan moved to the side of the table and picked up the big ledger. _Le Havre_ was a busy port and _Saint-Pierre_ a common destination – there were going to be a lot of ships. He caught Aramis's eye and the musketeer gave him a sympathetic shrug. He knew Aramis had more fondness for reading than he did, but in this case, the musketeer was eager to pursue their other lead. He couldn't blame him, and secretly D'Artagnan was relieved he would not have to figure out the intricacies of a brothel just yet. He wasn't ready to face that challenge without the opportunity to fortify himself with more wine than probably was healthy.

Aramis cleared his throat, pulling Athos's attention from the tax records. "You have things well in hand here, I'm going to check on our other lead."

"Do you know where you are going?" Athos asked.

"I was hoping Monsieur du Foy would be able to point me in the right direction," Aramis smiled, holding out his hand with the brothel tokens to their host. The portly man picked one up in his thick fingers, turning it over as he scrutinized it.

"Oh . . . well . . ." du Foy stammered, a slight blush rising to his cheeks, "I didn't know . . . I mean I am not versed in that sort of entertainment but if you are interested . . ."

"No, no Monsieur," Aramis gently corrected him, "The young Comte de Varade frequents that establishment. I'm hoping to find a clue to his plans and our missing comrade's whereabouts. Do you know where it is located?"

"This is one of the more popular venues for nobles and merchants," du Foy said, "You will find a wealthier clientele, but also one with . . . um . . . unusual appetites," the large man blushed again, "It is known that there are cruelties there," he added in a low voice, a glance over his shoulder to be sure his wife was not listening from the doorway. D'Artagnan did not miss the dark look that passed between Aramis and Athos at this statement, and Athos's wide-eyed glance asking Aramis to stay focused.

"I see," Aramis said through tight lips, "Perhaps after we find Porthos, we can address some of the activities at _La Chatte Secrète._ But for now, I could use directions." The Port Master complied, indicating it was not far but on the other side of the long quay. Aramis put on his hat and was about to take his leave when Athos's hand on his arm stopped him.

"Your pauldron," he said with a nod to Aramis's shoulder, "The Varade's have an aversion to musketeers."

"Excellent point," Aramis conceded, reaching up to loosen the buckles and slide the tooled leather shoulder piece from his arm. D'Artagnan felt his stomach sink. There was something wrong about Aramis going out into the night without the mark of the musketeers upon him. He remembered Porthos's pauldron, carefully wrapped and in Athos's saddle bag like a precious totem of their missing brother. They would not be whole until it was back on his arm and here was Aramis now removing his.

"I should go with him," D'Artagnan blurted out before he had really finished his thought, "It's dangerous to be at the docks with no sign of the King's authority."

Athos raised a brow and cocked his head, "Do you forget, D'Artagnan, that you do not have a pauldron either?"

"No, it's just . . ." D'Artagnan searched for the words, "He shouldn't do this alone. We are vulnerable in a town we don't know. If something happens to Aramis too, we won't . . . we can't . . . " He shook his head, realizing he was not expressing himself well, but feeling deeply that somehow it was dangerous and wrong for Aramis to go off into the night without the uniform of the musketeers.

"I think, Aramis," Athos said with a slight smile, "That D'Artagnan is offering to watch your back."

The marksman gave an audible exhale and brought his dark eyes up to meet D'Artagnan's. D'Artagnan already knew Aramis was inclined to say no, that they had told him that one person would fare better than two in this situation. And D'Artagnan was nervous, he was maybe not ready for this experience especially with what du Foy had said about the place. But he was brave too and he wasn't going to let Aramis walk into danger alone. Aramis's gaze narrowed, and D'Artagnan saw again that lingering darkness that had plagued the marksman for days, a glimpse of the rage the musketeer had let loose in the battle today. Without his pauldron to remind Aramis of his honor, D'Artagnan was afraid of what might happen. Aramis gave a snort and his lips turned up in a slight smile.

"Watch my back, indeed," he said lightly, with a quick glance to Athos who met his eye with an arched brow and an unspoken challenge, "Very well," Aramis conceded, "Let's go."

"Watch yourselves," Athos cautioned as they made for the door.

"Always, _mon ami,_ " the marksman smiled but the words held weight. As D'Artagnan followed Aramis out the door, he caught Athos's eye and saw gratitude but also pride in his mentor's gaze. D'Artagnan gave him a small dip of the head – yes, he would have Aramis's back and they would all come back safe.

* * *

Lanterns blazed behind silk curtains in the long front windows of the granite building, full of life despite the hour. Aramis pushed open the brightly painted door and stepped into a room of plush red hangings and gossamer gowns. The air was a haze of opium and tobacco smoke, soft murmurs and tinkling laughter whispered from the curtained sitting rooms. Women in various states of undress draped themselves along the arms or on the laps of the men who sought their services. Old men, paunchy men, balding men, virile men – all varieties of the male of the species were here, but Aramis was only interested in finding one of them. A sugar spun blonde with her robe open to her navel pressed herself against his side.

"Welcome," she purred, wrapping herself around his arm, "May I be at your service, Monsieur?"

Aramis untangled himself from her grasp. "I am here at the invitation of the Comte de Varade," he said, his eyes sparing nothing for the woman beside him as he scanned the room.

"Oh, for the card game?" she asked sweetly.

"Yes," he nodded in reply, "Yes, the card game," he glanced down at her through his long lashes, schooling his face to a relaxed smile.

"I'm afraid you will not find one tonight, Monsieur. The Comte has been away on business," she smiled up at him, slithering in front of him and wrapping her arms around his waist. She pressed herself against his chest, and stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear "You can pass the time instead with me if you like."

Aramis gave a soft laugh, choosing to brush his lips against her ear in a practiced gesture born from experience in the court, "You are very lovely, Mademoiselle," he breathed for her alone to hear, "but the Comte has recommended a particular . . . pleasure . . . to pass the time." He pulled back slightly to catch her eye, giving her a hungry look. Aramis hoped he was right, that the Comte had a favorite at the brothel who would have the information he was seeking. The woman in his embrace considered him for a long moment, then her lips turned up in a faint smile and her eyebrows arched as if he had just revealed a secret. He held her gaze, knowing he had struck a chord somewhere.

"Hmmm, I would not have expected one as gentle as you for that sort, Monsieur," she said with a hint of mischief, "The Comte has quite unique tastes even for an establishment such as this."

Aramis tensed at the implication of what "unique" could mean in these circumstances and unconsciously tightened his grip on the woman. He was barely managing the dark rage that had consumed him since Porthos's disappearance, and he was uncertain if he would be able to control himself if the Comte's desires included cruelty toward the women of the establishment. He inhaled sharply and bit his lip, and the woman gave a throaty chuckle.

"Oh, you are eager!" she smiled, mistaking his anger for lust. Her arms still around his neck, she wriggled up against him encouragingly, "And so beautiful in your desires. I might even let you ravish me for the night, hmmm?"

Aramis inhaled again, resisting the desire to push her away. "I'm afraid my appetites lean in another direction. The Comte has been so descriptive and I must know for myself."

"Pity for me then," the young woman sighed, slipping out of his embrace but wrapping herself around his arm, "I'm happy to introduce you Marie-Claire," she cooed, pulling him toward the grand staircase. She paused at the foot, holding her hand out expectantly, "but I will need a token of your affections first."

The coded language was something he had expected. He pulled open a small drawstring bag and emptied the contents into her upturned palm. Three brothel coins spilled into her hand. The woman raised an eyebrow at the small pile of tokens.

"An honored guest," she cooed, with the hint of curtsy toward him, "I'll bring you up to the studio," she said, slipping herself around his arm again. Aramis was surprised she did not ask for any further payment but the number of brothel tokens must have been a signal of some kind. Luck was playing into his hands.

The woman led him up the staircase and to the end of the corridor. He heard the muffled sounds of men and women as he passed down the hallway, knowing full well the activities of this floor. He heard other sounds too, sounds that disturbed him like the snap of a leather strap and a cry of anguish from a female voice. Aramis clenched his teeth. Now was not the time, but he vowed he would be back here. They paused before an ornate door, her hand resting on the latch.

"Madame always asks that I remind any of her guests that the artwork in the studio is highly valuable and if it should be damaged, the price incredibly high," she smiled up at him looking for his acknowledgment. Aramis was surprised at the concern but nonetheless gave her an affirming nod.

"I shall take the utmost care," he said, clasping a hand between his and giving a small half bow.

"Wait inside," she said, "I'll bring her." She slipped her hand from Aramis's as she pushed open the door and returned down the corridor the way they had come.

Aramis entered the room, softly latching the door behind him. It was large and not unexpectedly the highlight of the gilded room was a bed wide enough for four to sleep abreast. What caught Aramis's attention, however, was the large filigree picture frame free-standing a few paces from the foot of the bed. Other than the empty frame, no other sign of precious artwork was in sight.

As Aramis looked more closely he noticed golden shackles affixed to each corner so a person could be fastened spread-eagle by wrists and ankles and fill the frame. Curious, Aramis moved further into the room, running his hand along the frame and noting how sturdy it was. He had a few ideas of what this could be used for and a shiver ran up his back. He stepped through the frame toward the only other furniture in the room – a black ebony cabinet carved in a style native to the islands of New France. He opened the cabinet and his breath caught again in his throat.

Carefully laid out on glass shelves where dozens of knives, scalpels, stilettos and daggers. Varying sizes and lengths, their blades were highly polished and looked painstakingly cared for. Hanging inside the doors of the cabinet were a collection of whips, straps, flails, crops and martinets of various sizes. Some of the flails had soft tassels and strings, meant to tease more than harm. But others were cruel, with thick corded ropes, knotted leather, or even bits of metal braided into the tails. There were dozens of ways to abuse human flesh but even the interrogation rooms in the _Chatelet_ did not house such a vast collection of objects in one place. Seeing them here with a sole purpose of inflicting pain for the sake of another person's pleasure was gruesome. Aramis shuddered at the depth of the cruelty this room implied.

The top shelf held a large carved ebony box, the lid showing a scene of bare-breasted women carrying baskets on their heads through a field. The woodworking was delicate and detailed. Aramis traced his hand over the box and opened the lid, surprised at the contents. Instead of more blades, it was a collection of threads and needles. There were curved needles of various thicknesses, the kind used for leather working, alongside fine ladies' sewing needles and delicate silver pins. The threads ranged from gossamer-like silks to thick cat gut like bow strings. Aramis identified a large roll of white silk that one would use to suture wounds. Everything was neat and orderly, the kind of precision that he practiced himself when cleaning weapons so that he knew where something was even if he wasn't looking.

The sewing kit so carefully placed among the knives and whips seemed incongruous to Aramis until a soft sound behind him caused him to turn. As his eyes swept over the young woman who had entered the room, everything fell into place.

Her pale face glowed like polished alabaster contrasted by unbound dark hair trailing over her shoulders. A robe of thin pink silk was draped over her, but as Aramis turned, she let it drop to the floor. She bowed her head demurely, casting her eyes to the ground. Aramis let out the softest of gasps and stepped back through the frame, approaching her cautiously. Marie-Claire was incredibly beautiful, but instead of smooth and perfect skin, her body was covered in the lines of a thousand scars, not an inch of her unmarked.

As Aramis looked closely he could see that each scar was the aftermath of careful suturing, but far more horrifying were the patterns carved in her skin. Spirals had been sliced into her shoulders and flowers cut into her breasts. Her belly was a scatter of crossed lines, scars on top of scars on top of scars. Her legs, her feet, her arms, her hands all bore the ridges that told a story of fine and delicate cuts and precisely placed stitches. He slowly circled behind her, the scars also covered her back, her buttocks, her thighs, her calves. Delicate swirls and leaves had been stitched between crisscrossed thicker lines that must have been the result of deep scars left from being whipped.

Aramis felt the sting of tears in his eyes as he looked at the damage that had been inflicted. He thought of the scars on his own body, how much pain he had endured to earn each one of them. Remembered the suffering he too often was forced to inflict each time he took a needle and thread to the flesh of his brothers. Her scars were etched like a pattern of lace lain atop her skin, each thread a marker of some horror to her body. He considered the years that she must have spent beneath the knife, whip and needle as canvas to these butchers and fought the urge to be sick.

Aramis noted his hand had a slight tremble as he stooped down to pick up the discarded robe. He gently slipped it over the girl's shoulders, moving slowly and softly so as not to startle her.

"You are not pleased?" the girl asked, a worried timbre to her voice but not raising her head to look back at him.

"No, I am not pleased" Aramis answered curtly, aware of the growl that emanated with the harshly spoken syllables. The young woman stiffened with a slight cringe, signaling she anticipated some violence on his part. Aramis took a steadying breath and forced the edge out of his voice, "Who did this to you?"

"The Comte uses the whips," she said quietly, "but it is Madame who carves and sews. She says I am their masterpiece."

"Madame?" Aramis enquired, shocked that a woman would be party to this kind of torture.

"My Mistress," the girl answered, "Madame Celeste. She is the proprietress here."

Gingerly, Aramis reached out a hand to trace the rigid lines etched into the delicate flesh of her neck. He felt each small bump within the lines, recognizing that these were the results of dozens and dozens of tiny sutures as delicate as a women's finest needlepoint. He could not imagine the pain. He did not think he could have found more hate for the Comte de Varade and his sister than he already had, but as his fingers tenderly soothed the lines in the woman's abused flesh, his anger reached an intensity that burned off any thoughts of future mercy in the crucible of his rage.

Aramis's emotions warred within him. He wanted nothing more than to rescue this woman, and any of her sisters, from the hell of this place and bring down the walls around them, but a delay now would mean losing Porthos on a ship bound for _Saint-Pierre_. He wondered if this poor woman could even help him. She must be as damaged inside as her flesh was outside. He considered trying to smuggle her from the building and get her to Athos. Perhaps in a safe environment and with gentle coaxing she might recall something that could be useful.

The click of the door latch caught his attention. Aramis raised his head slightly at the sound but remained behind Marie-Claire, his hand on her shoulder now a gesture of protection that he hoped the girl could recognize. A woman in a cornflower blue dress entered the room, the ring of silver keys on a slender chain around her waist declaring her the Madame of this house. Aramis was out of time.

* * *

She opened the door to the studio to find the man with the dark curls standing behind Marie-Claire, a cheek pressed closely to the side of her face and his hand upon the curve of her neck. He glanced up, his dark eyes smoldering with raw emotion. He was as beautiful as her assistant had said and the passion and danger in his gaze made him almost unbearably attractive. But even more compelling was the unhurried way he was examining Marie-Claire, having so much control as to let his hands linger yet his unrelenting hunger was obvious in his eyes. He looked ready to devour something.

She moved into the room to stand before them, curious as to who this attractive friend of her brother was and why she had not met him before. It was rare for Benoit to grant access to their work to someone who was not an intimate of his, but perhaps he too was drawn to this man's barely controlled appetites. She found a flush rising to her face as she drew closer to them.

"Welcome to my studio, Monsieur . . . ?" she trailed off, lifting a brow and enquiring his name.

"Aramis," he answered in a rough baritone. She knew men, and she knew from the rasp in his voice and the fire in his eyes that this one was fighting for control. Her lips curved in an inviting smile.

"Welcome, Monsieur Aramis," her voice pitched low to draw his focus solely to her, "I am Celeste." She noted an unreadable shift in his eyes. Recognition perhaps? Benoit must have said something of her to this man. Celeste reached a hand to cup Marie-Claire's chin and raise her face to the light. "She is an exquisite piece, do you not think?" she asked him. There was something thrilling about this as they stood close, their hands both intimately touching the nearly naked body of the young woman between them. Aramis's breathing shifted and Celeste knew he felt something too.

"She is indeed beautiful," Aramis answered her, something dark coloring his tone, "but I admit I'm more intrigued by the woman who did this to her."

"She is the result of my handiwork, yes," Celeste smiled, "but of course she could not have become my canvas had not Benoit taken her beneath the lash." Aramis let out a sharp exhale, his other hand wrapping around Marie-Claire's arm. Her words had obviously struck again a deep note within him, "You seem . . . eager, Monsieur," she teased with a raised brow, "please do not tell me my presence would disrupt your pleasure. I imagine it would only enhance it."

Aramis took in a deep inhale at this, and something again shifted in his eyes. Something softened she thought, a decision reached. Celeste dropped her hand from Marie-Claire's chin and took a step back, offering the man room to move as he saw fit. She was interested in watching but was surprised at what he did next. Aramis dropped his hands from Marie-Claire and moved to stand between them, the girl seemingly forgotten as his gaze seemed to be only for her.

"While the artwork is lovely," he said, taking her hand, "I am far more captivated by the artist," he finished, taking her hand to his lips and urgently pressing his open mouth to her knuckles, his fingers expertly stroking the soft underside of her wrist.

"This is an unexpected turn," she replied, feeling a genuine pleasure at the man's attentions. It was rare for her to be so moved so readily. Her curiosity was aroused, as were her desires, "It is always the artwork that draws attention."

"Not in my case, Madame," Aramis answered, flashing her a charming grin, "Your skill runs much more to my talents than you could possibly know. I knew had to meet you before I left France."

"Hmmm," she hummed at him gently tugging his arm to lead him to the recessed seat set betwee the long windows in the wall opposite the door. She gave Marie-Claire a dismissive wave as they walked past and the girl quietly nodded and left the room. Aramis did not seem to notice the girl's departure as his eyes were only on her.

"I'm surprised to hear you know of me," she said, sitting on cushions of the alcove and gesturing for him to follow suit. "My work is not something we generally talk about outside this room. Tell me then how you know my brother?" She scanned his features for signs of subterfuge but found still the same intense passions and hungry look cast upon his face. His desires were obvious and his control of his emotions masterful.

"I do not," Aramis replied, his tone slightly mischievous, "but I know Marcus, the foreman at the winery. We have often talked of you and while he was frightened by your . . . interests . . . I found myself drawn to you. Compelled to find you."

"But how did you come by the tokens to be admitted to this room?" Celeste could find no outright lie in his statements, but something seemed off. A nagging doubt about this man arriving now, on this night, was growing. She knew she would need to tread carefully.

"I have been a mercenary a long time," he smiled, "Other men talk, and they trade – quite easily actually when they don't know the value that they hold in their hands." He punctuated his statement with another kiss to her knuckles, but this time his lips lingered, turning her hand upright in his and trailing kisses along her wrist.

Celeste enjoyed the sensation as she took a full measure of the man. He was in leathers and still had rapier and dagger buckled to his waist, a pair of pistols holstered to his side. He smelled of road dust and horses but clearly he was a practiced courtier, not some scruffy ill-bred soldier of fortune. He was right that most men would not know the value of one of her tokens beyond giving a rough night to one of her girls. But this man knew, had sought her out and now sat by her side hungrily trailing kisses up her arm. He was good, she would give him that.

"It is my pleasure to meet you Monsieur Aramis," Celeste smiled, putting her other hand under his chin to pull his face up to meet her gaze, seeking to catch truth or lies in his eyes, "Now tell me why you are here in _Le Havre_ and why you felt such urgency to meet me."

"I'm seeking to leave France on the first available ship," he said, not missing a beat, "and may be away for a long time. I gambled with fate that I might find you before I sailed. I have been as one obsessed."

"Why are you leaving?" she pressed, holding his dark gaze and searching for signs of falsehood.

"I killed a man," he answered, a dangerous gleam in his eyes.

"How?" she asked, a corresponding thrill rising in her as his brutality rose to the surface.

"Beat him to death with my bare hands for lying to me," he replied, his gaze now a warning and a threat. No, this man was not lying. Nor was he ashamed. "I do not regret it," he added, "but now it has become inconvenient to remain in France."

"And me?" Celeste demanded as her tone intensified and she tightened the grip on his chin. She pulled her other hand from his grasp and smoothly slipped a thin silver stiletto from the waistband of her dress. She pressed the fine point to the hollow of Aramis's throat, "What draws you to me? What do you want of me? I will know if you lie," she threatened, applying pressure to the blade in her hand.

Celeste sensed danger from him as his eyes narrowed. He looked as if he could kiss her as easily as kill her in that moment. So many thoughts shifting behind those dark eyes and Celeste found she wanted to know each one. She wanted him beneath her knife to lay open all his secrets.

Aramis licked his lips and let out a small exhale, clearly calming himself before he answered. "I would let you cut me if you truly desired," he said, his voice quiet, intimate, with the sound of a practiced lover, "but I would rather wield the blade myself . . . and the needle," he added, a lacivious smile playing across his lips. "I am quite talented in that area myself."

"You sew flesh?" Celeste asked, her voice a soft breath of surprise and hope, "I've never met a man who had this appetite. To cut, to brutalize, yes. But to sew? To create?" Celeste felt herself being overcome by desire and shook her head, steeling herself against her feelings. The timing of this was too easy, she was about to sail to _Saint-Pierre_ and here was a man who shared her same cravings looking to leave France? No, something was not right. She felt herself becoming angry at the emotions he was pulling from her. He was too practiced, too at ease in a boudoir. If he was deceiving her, she would skin him alive. But if he was true? The weight of her desire for him was becoming unbearable. There was only one way to find out.

"As an artist myself, I must insist then upon a sample of your work, Monsieur," she said, knowing her soft voice contradicted the slight prick of the stiletto into the soft flesh of his skin. He winced slightly but did not pull back from her as a smile spread across his face.

"You will find I am quite skilled," he answered, still holding her eyes with an unwavering gaze and ignoring the blood that welled up from the small puncture. It must be paining him, but she marveled again at how his self-control allowed him to keep his hands away from the small wound.

"Hmmm," a soft hum escaped her lips as she considered. The fact that he was so willing, and so boastful boded well. Perhaps fate truly had brought him to her on this night of all nights? She released the blade from his throat and stroked her thumb over his neck, wiping away the small dot of blood. "I'll have to find us a canvas then," she said suggestively, then brought her thumb to her lips and softly licked away the smear of blood before rising to head for the door.


	16. Chapter 16

_A/N: Warnings in this chapter for torture and cruelty. Thank you for the encouragement and follows for this story and for reviews, especially to those guests that I can't respond to. I truly appreciate each and every comment. My gratitude always lies with Issai for her wonderful beta-reading and insights that make the story better. Mistakes are all mine, no sharing._

* * *

Aramis felt his stomach drop. He was to prove his skill with a needle on one of the women in the house. The thought was sickening, a strike against the very core of his being. But he desperately needed a way to Porthos. This woman was dangerous – cruel, intelligent, and as well-versed in the nature of men as he was with women. He would have to prove himself somehow or she would know him for a fraud. If he lost this chance, there would not be another. They were out of time. Aramis lurched to his feet as she opened the door.

"Wait!" he said more urgently than he intended as he stood. He was breathing deeply, trying to keep his fear at bay, "Wait," he said more softly as she paused and turned to him, hand still on the latch. Aramis noted that behind the open door stood at least three men, fully armed. If those men had the skill of the mercenaries they had fought in the woods outside of _Toutanville_ he would be hard pressed and the chance of her escaping during a skirmish too great. The course of action he was pursuing was still the best way. He needed to earn her trust.

Ever the practiced courtier Aramis found an intimate smile for her, knowing that she would continue to misread his passion as lust for as long as he could layer the gestures of seduction on top of his simmering rage. "I don't think we need company," he breathed, moving his hands to unbuckle his sword belt. Her eyebrows raised, and he could see her desire warring with her suspicions. She pushed the door gently closed again leaning her back against it, her eyes never leaving him

"Please," he said in the low tones of a man captured in desire, "might you have a sewing kit I could borrow?" he asked as he gently slipped the sword belt from his hips and carefully laid it beside the window seat. His pistols followed and then he turned back to her, slowly unbuckling the clasps of his leather overcoat. He held her gaze, letting a slight expectant smile play across his lips.

She stood frozen against the door, her look unreadable. Aramis continued to unhurriedly undress, unwinding the blue sash from his waist before shrugging out of his leather coat. Stripped down to his shirt, he dipped his head in submission and held out his arms, palms upturned in a gesture of offering – his body was hers to use.

Celeste took in a small shuddering breath and her eyes widened. He saw the flush rise in her cheeks and knew that her passions were threatening to overcome her. Aramis felt a small surge of triumph as he took the upper hand once again. He was a skilled warrior, in the battlefield and in the bedroom.

"You are full of surprises, Monsieur," she finally breathed, then pushed herself from the door and moved to the ebony cabinet that held her sewing kit. Aramis neatly refolded his doublet and sash, trying to focus on anything other than the human-sized picture frame. He would do anything to keep another woman from ever being tortured there. Even if it meant abusing himself.

Carefully, he rolled up his sleeves to expose his arms. They were already marked with scars, injuries taken side by side with his brothers. A two-inch line ran through the middle of his right forearm and only luck had prevented it from cutting more than muscle. Athos had stitched that after a dagger had caught him in the same fight that had seen an axe to Porthos's back, forcing them to shelter in _Pinon_. It was still new to him this mark, and more clumsy than a surgeon would have managed, but he traced the line tenderly as he realized the mark was now a sign of Athos on his body, not the mark of an enemy. He had older scars that marred his arms, some had healed on their own, some stitched by surgeons or soldiers, and some he had stitched himself. Many had faded, but none really ever left him.

She returned with the roll of suturing thread and a finer silver needle than he had ever used. Tucked under her arm was a bottle of wine and her other hand held some fresh, white strips of linen and a small flask which Aramis assumed were stronger spirits for cleaning the wound. Aramis gave her a hungry look and slipped the bottle of wine from her arm, pulling the cork with his teeth. He took a deep swig of wine, his eyes never leaving hers as he broadcast his hunger through his gestures. He was grateful for the wine though. What he was about to do was not going to be pleasant in the least.

Aramis put down the wine took a seat beside Celeste as she neatly laid out the objects she had brought on the cushion between them. "May I borrow your stiletto," he asked softly. She cocked her head, surprised again, but slipped it from her pocket and held it to him, her fingers lingering on his so that they clasped the blade between them.

"I would be very pleased if you would let me make the cut," Celeste said sweetly as if she were offering to slice a cake. Aramis resisted the urge to pull away from her.

"Madame," he whispered, leaning in closely and nuzzling his lips over her ear, "I beg you, let me cut myself for you. Let me draw blood by my own hand. Let me give this to you," He placed a kiss seductively behind her ear, braving this façade of intimacy in hopes he would not be forced to let that creature leave her mark on him. She inhaled deeply, sliding her cheek against his and letting him trail his lips over her neck.

"Oh, Aramis," she sighed, stretching her neck to expose it to his mouth, "You will undo me." She gave in to her desires a moment longer than inhaled deeply, regaining her control. She pulled back from him, challenge again lighting her eyes. No, he was not going to distract her. It was time to prove himself or risk her passions turning to anger.

She released her hand from his, taking his left arm into his lap. She inspected it carefully, her fingers tracing the other scars on his arm. He reached down and took up the bottle of wine again, fortifying himself with another drink. His skin crawled.

"What happened here?" she asked, fingers brushing the minor slash he had received in the failed ambush earlier in the day. The shallow wound was little more than a scratch and had not required stitches but the flesh was still angry around the red line that trailed up from his wrist along the bone of his arm.

"Bandits on the road," Aramis answered, again staying to as much of the truth as possible, "It is nothing."

"It's in a beautiful spot. Cut there," she said challenging him again. Aramis gave a little shake of his head in slight disbelief. Piercing healthy flesh with your own hand was bad enough, but to deepen an existing wound, that would take extreme self-control.

"My pleasure," Aramis said, not trusting himself to say more. Celeste laid his arm in her lap and took up the flask and one of the cloths. She poured some alcohol over the long scratch, her lips turning up in a slight smile as Aramis winced. Then she vigorously rubbed, adding a burning pain to the raw wound and pulling up some blood again as the scab opened. She slipped the cloth beneath his arm, to catch the blood that he was about to draw.

"There now. Let's see what you can do," she said, then added with a wicked smile, "And make it deep."

She was clearly skeptical and had set him a true challenge. He'd had other wounds that pained him more deeply than this, but Aramis had never experienced this kind of inhumane treatment from someone who was not an enemy. She was doing this for her pleasure, and supposedly his. He wanted nothing more than to take the stiletto and plunge it into her breast, but his mission, his duty, was clear. He would suffer any torture to keep his brothers safe, even at his own hand it seemed. He took up the stiletto with steady hands and cleanly and swiftly sliced into the tender flesh of his own arm. Nothing but a wince revealed his discomfort, and as the pain penetrated his body he let it fuel again the fire of his rage. This cut was for Porthos. He would endure it a hundred times over to bring him back. A hundred times a hundred.

He laid down the stiletto, painted with his blood, and let her press an alcohol-soaked cloth over the fresh wound. The fire of it coursed up his arm, but he didn't want infection and was glad he would not have to risk it. He steeled himself as she continued to clean the wound roughly, pulling open the folds of skin to pour more spirits into his torn flesh then vigorously rubbing again with the cloth. He took the wine to his lips again, starting to breathe heavily as the pain worked on his body. Her treatments were a cruelty that gruesomely mocked the tender care he would have received at the hands of his comrades.

He regained his breath and his composure when she finished with the wound and moved to thread the needle. Having made the flesh as raw as possible, she had ensured this would be particularly difficult for him. Not only the would the pain be an issue, but the ragged and inflamed flesh would be more difficult to draw together with sutures. He would have to place small, neat stitches to do this correctly. He reminded himself he had been through worse, under worse conditions, and with more grievous wounds. This witch was not even close to breaking his resolve. He was beyond caring. Aramis took the fine needle from her hand and plunged it into his own flesh, turning his grimace of pain into a smile of desire that begged her to let him bleed for her again.

* * *

"Get him up!"

 _The order penetrated his mind just before hands seized his arms and dragged him to his feet. He wasn't sure how long he'd been sleeping, but for the first time in this interminable string of days, he felt more solid, more certain. This was the effect of rest, he realized. And something else. It nagged at his mind as they forced him onto his feet. He stood leaning against the wall, assessing his condition while he waited to be told what to do._

 _He still hurt. More intensely than before, with a fire that coursed up his back and down his legs and pulsed with of life of its own with each beat of his heart. The intensity was nearly overwhelming and he found himself sweating and fighting to keep from moaning. This is what had changed. The pain before had been unrelenting but bearable. This was growing into agony. But with the pain, his mind was somehow sharper too. He could remember with more clarity than he had before._

 _Someone shoved a water skin into his hands, and he drank greedily without being told, washing dirt and hay from his mouth. It was pulled away far too soon as they took his arms and pulled them back against the wall of the stall. He didn't resist, he had stopped doing that, but some part of him now realized he could. As they took up tension on the long chain that threaded from wrist to wrist through his collar, he tensed his muscles, testing their strength. He had more than he thought, which caused one of his captors to tug painfully on the chain, forcing his arm flat to the wall. A groan escaped his lips at the rough treatment, but it was worth it to know that he had some strength._

 _They shackled him to the wall, arms spread wide like Christ on the cross. His head was not anchored, but the taught chain through the collar had him effectively immobilized. They left him there alone for some time and he continued to sort through the thoughts suddenly rushing to fill the spaces in his mind. He realized what had changed._

 _The water had been warm and stale from the skin, but it was not tainted. No bitterness had laced his drink, nor, as he recalled, the water he had had when they fed him. He knew she had been drugging him, but she had not been there earlier and he had not seen her now. The pain was intensifying as the drugs slowly wore off, but for now, he had some clarity of thought too. And desire – the desire to fight back._

 _Something else had returned too – his brothers. They would never abandon him or give him up for dead without seeing his cold corpse before their eyes. Just as he would never abandon them. He knew in his heart they had to be close. He just had no way of knowing if they would be close enough to make a difference when he gave the last of his strength to kill the people who had done this to him._

* * *

Finishing the sutures had taken all his concentration. He was careful and neat with each stitch, knowing good work now would lock infection out of the wound and give him a fair chance that the scar would be smooth and eventually just fade into another sign of a battle won. And he had won this battle. He knew it each time she tenderly mopped the sweat from his brow or set the flagon of wine to his lips. She had offered to finish more than once, but he had refused her, declaring this as a sign of his devotion. But he had let her tie off the know and cut the thread. He thought he might be too unsteady at that point to do it well. She had washed away the blood, gently this time, and carefully bathed his wound with more spirits and wrapped his forearm in bandages as he leaned back in the alcove and regained his composure.

She finished caring for him, then rose, picking up the remnants of his work and returning them to the ebony cabinet. He watched her move through half-lidded eyes, looking for any signs she might be spooked or moving toward calling her guards. His right hand dangled at his side, fingertips brushing the hilt of his sword. He was not nearly so overcome as he looked.

But Celeste did nothing short of clean her tools of his blood with more spirits and bandages, then placed the used linens in a copper bowl in the bottom of the cabinet. She was so practiced at this. Aramis felt his throat constrict as he again swallowed down the bile that rose as he watched her. Of all the of the cruelties he had endured as a soldier at the hands of his enemies, this woman was the most terrifying. He laid his injured arm across his chest, surreptitiously fingering the gold cross that was always now around his neck. Celeste was evil, a handmaiden of the devil that walked this earth, and Aramis called upon his God to be his shield through the rest of this long night and into the dawn.

Finished with her fastidious cleaning, Celeste joined him again in the window seat, taking his arm from his chest and settling it in her lap once more. She entwined her finger in his hand and sighed in satisfaction. "You are magnificent," she said, raising his hand to press her lips against his knuckles.

"As only you deserve," Aramis whispered back, "What you are able to do . . . . well, I have never seen its match." Aramis knew he was skirting truth again, dancing with the devil in hopes of making her sing. He had proved his work, but convincing her to somehow lead him to Porthos, that would take some delicate maneuvering. He hoped time would be on his side, however. He knew her ship was to leave at dawn, and as the evening drew on and his connection to her grew, he was banking on her desire for him to overcome her judgment.

"I had plans to leave France as soon as possible," Aramis said languidly, "but now. Hmmmm," he pulled her hand to his mouth now, speaking as he kissed her, "I could be persuaded to stay on. Keep you here in this room, make love to you." He glanced up at her through his lashes, watching her emotions war across her face. He saw desire, but he also saw worry and indecision. She was trying to make up her mind about something. He rotated her arm so that her palm was upwards then kissed the fleshy part at the base of her hand, letting his teeth playfully scrape along the tender skin.

Her lips were pressed together, but a small sigh of desire escaped. He knew that every inch of her desired him. But would it be enough for her to make him an offer? He let his lips move up her arm then kissed her in the soft bend of her elbow, eliciting another sigh as he let his mouth linger there.

"Stop, stop," she breathed, pushing ineffectually against his chest, "I cannot do this now. I cannot." She pulled her arm from him and stood, smoothing her skirts. Aramis noted the flush to her cheeks and her heavy breathing. "Aramis, why, why are you here, tonight of all nights?" She did not seem to be questioning his veracity now, but more cursing fate.

"Mi'lady," Aramis said, reaching out to clasp her hands in his, "you are distressed. It was not my intention, I'm deeply sorry," he said, dipping his head in apology.

"No, it is not that, you have done nothing but please me," Celeste answered, lifting a smile to her face, "But my time is not my own this night, and I too am leaving _Le Havre_. My ship sails at dawn."

Aramis shook his head, turning a despondent gaze to meet her desperate one, "This seems so cruel, that we are to be parted now." Aramis stood, giving her a look of longing before taking up his doublet and carefully unfolding it. He kept his back to her, head hanging, hoping that she read in his body the signs of his utter disappointment.

She sighed again, then slipped her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek to his back. "Where will you go?"

"I do not know," he answered quietly, sadly, "I have had no plan beyond this, beyond arriving at _Le Havre,_ beyond meeting you," he finished, turning to take her in his arms, "I hope only to be away from France, maybe to Corsica to join the army there. I hear there are opportunities for men skilled with the sword."

"You would travel so far?" she said, pulling back from his embrace to look him in the eye.

"Nothing keeps me here, Madame," he replied, letting bitterness creep into his voice, "I just want away from Paris and this accursed land. I can no longer bear it. I would go anywhere that would have me." He let her see his sorrow, his worry for Porthos, his misery in this days-long chase. He let her see fear, fear that somehow she would slip through his fingers. The pause between them was too long. Her breathing too quiet. Aramis hung his head, deeply afraid that he had played this last card wrong.

"Aramis, I might have an answer for you," she offered, urging him to sit beside her again. He let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding and complied, letting her keep hold of his hands as she eagerly turned to him, her eyes bright with a renewed hope, "I sail tomorrow for _Saint-Pierre_ , along with my brother, to my father's estate. It is my first such passage and I would take with me a man-at-arms to protect me. Once there, my father would put you to his service. It is a better situation than Corsica," she moved her hands to his face, staring deeply into his eyes, "You are a treasure, Aramis. I have never known the likes of a man such as you. I would keep you close to me."

Aramis smiled his brightest most hopeful grin. He would like nothing better to be at her side as she led him straight to Porthos. She threw herself into his arms and he held her, taking a moment to steady his breath, regain his hope. He loathed the creature in his arms more than any person, male or female, he had ever encountered, but at this moment he prayed God to keep her safely in his arms until he was reunited with his brother.

It did not take long for her to gather her things, and she took his arm to lead him down the grand staircase to her waiting carriage. Aramis wondered what would happen to Marie-Claire, knowing her creator and tormentor was leaving her behind. He gazed over the great room, noting that nothing seemed very different than when he had first arrived. Only he saw now something so much darker and wondered what abuses each of the women here had endured. It took all of his resolve to keep walking.

He helped Celeste into the carriage while the footman loaded her strong boxes and ledgers. She was clearly not intending to return for a long time. Aramis paused to adjust his hat, raising the brim and raking a hand over his curls. Anyone paying attention would just see a pensive man looking off into the distance, but Aramis was not daydreaming. His eyes were fixed on the alley across the way and as he mounted the step to the carriage he knew with unwavering conviction that D'Artagnan was watching his back.

* * *

Benoit was fuming. Celeste had left hours ago to collect the books and strong boxes from the brothel. They had unfinished work here and she was an important part of it. He knew her appetites, her distractions. She was likely fawning over Marie-Claire again. He knew he should have flayed the skin from that whore's back the last time they had been there. Celeste was so unwilling to part with their work when she was done. Benoit preferred smooth, unmarked flesh to work with. Once the canvas was full, he had little interest unless it was to strip it from the frame.

"Hubert!" Benoit called out, gesturing for the foreman to join him at his desk. He was marking and cataloging the barrels as they marked and loaded them. The large room was nearly empty, the wine already piled in the hold of the ship. "We've work in the stable," he told his man, "Send me the blacksmith." Hubert nodded and hurried back into the storeroom, seeking the big man who was finishing the last of the crates.

Benoit slid back the lid of one of the unsealed crates and pulled forth a bottle of wine. Slicing the cork from the bottle with his dagger, he drank deeply. If Celeste had time to indulge herself, well then so did he. Taking the wine, along with a second bottle, he made his way back to the stables.

Their pet musketeer was trussed up along the wall just waiting for him. His arms were spread wide and his head hung, but as he entered the stable the man shifted as if trying to lift his head. Benoit stared as he took another drink. They had worked carefully so as to keep him in good shape, whipping him in only specific places. Benoit had been restrained, mostly using his riding crop or a leather flail. But he was angry now, angry at Celeste and her fickle interest in Marie-Claire. He hated when she left him. Benoit moved closer to the musketeer, pulling up his head by the hair and meeting his dark gaze.

"You miss her?" he snarled, "Miss having her stroke you and coo over you?" Benoit felt his anger rising, jealous at this man, this beast, that claimed so much of his sister's attentions. The big man said nothing, but his eyes narrowed as if warning of danger. "Oh, not so broken as she believed, I see," Benoit smiled, patting the musketeer on the cheek, "No worries, I have my methods too." Benoit stepped away and opened the tack box near the entrance to the stall. He pulled out a martinet, nine tails of stiff leather with knots at the end. It was not his most deadly instrument, but it would cause enough damage to the skin to be satisfying while being light enough to wield over a lengthy period of time.

The first stroke was not hard, just enough to rouse the man from the fog of his previous injuries. Benoit took another drink and hit him a second and third time. Then paused, looking where the strokes were falling. The man was stoic, he knew this from the very first time. But he was so much more shattered now. He had made him cry, made him whimper. But tonight, Benoit felt like beating him until he made him beg. He took another long pull from the bottle, and let the whip fly. The big man grunted. Yes, this was getting through.

Benoit lost track of the number of lashes he gave. Some just marring the flesh with angry welts, others hard enough to bite into the skin. The musketeer cried out now with every stroke, incoherent sounds that might have been words mixed with the moans of pain. His chest ran red with blood by the time Benoit paused to open the second bottle of wine. He was about to start up again when Hubert entered. Benoit tossed the martinet back into the tack box, closed the lid and sat down to watch, a hungry smile painting his face.

* * *

 _He redefined agony. The man beating him was as wicked as his sister. He varied the strokes and the intensity. He never knew when or where the next lash would fall. His chest, arms and thighs were a river of fire from which his own blood poured forth. He was not ashamed that he cried out, he had lost that dignity days ago under the whip and the needle. He had to endure, he just had to endure._

 _Another lash fell and he tried to speak, to tell the man to stop, but he could not form his mouth to make words. He felt a different kind of haze descending as the pain threatened to take him down. He called out to his brothers, cried their names with each breath, and yet still the lashes fell. He longed for the bitter drink now, the release to oblivion that her medicines gave him. His biceps and shoulders hurt from pulling against the chains, his cheek was on fire from a snap of a lash before he had learned to keep his head down._

 _And then nothing._

 _He tried to steady his breathing, knowing Aramis would urge him to do so were he here._

 _He got his feet under himself again as Athos would expect._

 _He gave his head a small shake, trying clear the webs of pain and follow the thread to his core, to his heart, to where he knew D'Artagnan would be waiting._

 _He would endure._

 _An acrid smell assailed his nostrils, and he raised his head enough to look through swollen eyes. He gasped – no, no, no, no. Anything, anything but that._

 _He didn't know if he spoke aloud, but it didn't matter, the man in the leather apron came closer, brandishing a hot iron before him. He pulled at his chains, felt the strain and tear of his muscles as he arched his back and pulled. But the chains would not budge and the hot iron hovered still before his eyes._

 _A hand grabbed his hair, pulling his head up and slamming it back against the wall._

 _"Beg all you want. This my mark," the words were harsh in his ear, "You are my property. I will abuse your flesh and your bones for as long as I desire. You are no longer a man and you are less than a dog."_

 _He struggled again, pulling, straining with all his might but the chains held, and hand knotted in his hair was unmovable. The red-hot metal came closer, hovered over his heaving chest and then the man in the leather apron thrust the brand onto his left breast._

 _The howl that came from him was the last thing he remembered as his body and mind retreated into the darkness of unconsciousness._


	17. Chapter 17

_A/N: Warnings for scenes of cruelty and torture, although if you got through the last chapter, you should make it through this one just fine. Many, many thanks to everyone who continues to leave reviews, favorites and follows. I appreciate each and every comment and the time you take to let me know how things are going. My gratitude as always to Issai for being a patient and detailed reader - poor thing had to read one section of this three times until I could get it right! Despite all of her work, I still make terrible mistakes that I take full responsibility for._

* * *

They passed the time during the short carriage ride to the docks talking about her father and their businesses on _Saint-Pierre_. Aramis had been full of questions, not surprising as she was offering him a position in her father's household with no information about it other than her word, and no connections beyond the intense night they had just spent together. What they had shared was far deeper than any encounter she had had even with the most skilled of lovers. If she closed her eyes she could still picture his beautiful face etched in lines of pain and desire as he methodically stitched himself upon her command. They had consummated their desires as sure as if they had been intimate together.

Even now, as he was all business and questions, Celeste could sense an eagerness and urgency coming from Aramis. There was an air of desperation around this man, of high stakes and deep need that made her wonder who he had killed and in what circumstances. Perhaps a noble who would take an exacting revenge with enough allies to have a long reach throughout all of France? She knew first hand of deep power, the kind that Cardinal Richelieu wielded, the kind that had cost her her father. No, she did not blame Aramis his caution or his fear.

The carriage stopped before the great doors of the warehouse and Aramis was out of the coach immediately. She noted that he quickly surveyed the area before reaching to give her a hand down. She had picked well in a protector as he already was on alert for any threats that might occupy the dark streets at this early hour. The sky though was gently brightening and sunrise could not be more than an hour away.

As they entered the warehouse, Celeste was heartened to see that most of it was empty now, the barrels already stocked into the hold of the ship. They would leave as soon as the sun was up, bound for _Saint-Pierre_ loaded not just with valuable goods, but with a large stock of coin and promissory notes that would fund a great expansion of their business endeavors. The plantation was thriving and there was profit to be made for anyone who could tame the jungle and the native population. Her father was eagerly anticipating their arrival, a reunion Celeste had dreamed of since her father had been taken from their estate half a decade ago. He had been pleased with her and Benoit's ability to manage the mainland portion of their business, had counseled them via letters regarding their efforts and they had laid the ground work together to add spice trading and slaving to their corporation. Under her and Benoit's names, the Cardinal could not siphon off further funds from their father's hard work. It was worth the journey to _Saint-Pierre_ to bring their plans finally to fruition.

The gift of the musketeer that had so humiliated her father all those years ago was something she and Benoit had worked out on their own. Her father was not expecting it, but to make a slave of the very man who had caused his exile . . . it was a pleasure they could share together for years to come as long as they managed him well. Celeste knew she should have seen to him herself but trusted that Benoit would have gotten him ready for the journey. She needed to check though, and to give him another dose of laudanum. It would have to be stronger as she had gotten off schedule with him, but there was enough in his system that he should still be docile enough to manage.

Celeste stopped a tall man in rough work clothes as he hoisted a crate to his shoulder. "Bertrand, have you seen Master Benoit?"

"Was at the dock, Ma'am," he answered, a rough country accent sliding over his words, "Shouldst fetch him for yer?"

"Yes," she replied, lifting her head slightly as she proudly demonstrated to Aramis her status over the workers here. It was no small feat for a woman to manage a business empire as vast as this, "Tell him to meet me in the stables." The man grunted his acknowledgment and made off with the barrel.

"Come," she smiled at Aramis, standing a pace behind her, hands on his hips as he watched her, "I need to finish preparation of our most precious bit of cargo." He stepped to her and she took his arm, enjoying the feel of him beneath her hands again. She gripped his arm more tightly and was happy to feel the tension still shooting through his body. "You will very much enjoy this," she said with a suggestive arch to her eyebrow.

"What pleases you is sure to please me" Aramis answered her, a dark and dangerous note coloring his tone. The tension in him was intoxicating.

He was quiet as they walked down the corridor of the horse stalls. She wondered if he was having second thoughts, but a glance at him brought nothing but one of his hungry smiles and a reassuring squeeze of her hand. He was full of so many complexities. She marveled at his self-control, yet their night had been full of impulsive behavior. His quest to find her had been as impetuous as his drive to leave France was calculated. He exuded obedience to her authority yet he had a willingness to cast his lot into the unknown. He had a soldier's discipline and a courtier's bearing. He was a puzzle she could spend years unraveling.

At the end of the corridor, the stall was open. Celeste dropped his arm and entered, her breath catching at the sight of her prize. Benoit had gone to work on him, the marks across his chest still bled slightly. His biceps and forearms were a crisscross of her brother's rage. Not all were deep, but he would spend the entire crossing to _Saint-Pierre_ under her needle regardless.

But the most beautiful sight of all was their brand upon his chest. It was still angry and red, freshly done. The musketeer's head hung limply, his body slumped. He was on his feet only due to the chains pinning him to the wall. He was exquisite and broken and hers to make whole and break again. She moved into the stall, placing her hand over the upside down "Y" that marked him now as the property of her family.

"My God," Aramis breathed as he stepped behind her, her fingers lightly tracing the fresh brand on his chest.

"Lovely, yes?" she answered, "This one will outshine even Marie-Claire." She felt him tense behind her as her hand dropped from the musketeer's chest and snaked up to wind into Aramis's soft curls. Felt the slight tremors of his passion as he slipped one arm around her waist, another sliding up her back. She leaned against his chest, head rolling back against his shoulder, face tilted up for the kiss she craved. He gripped her tightly and pulled her close, the scruff of his beard scraping the delicate flesh of her cheek.

"Release him," he growled as he pressed steel to her exposed neck.

Celeste inhaled sharply, her hand instinctively grabbing at the arm holding the dagger to her throat. She pulled, but his grip was like an iron band. Her mind reeled as she realized everything, everything about this man had been a lie. She shifted to grab her stiletto from her pocket, but his other hand found her arm and his grip around her tightened, immobilizing her as firmly as any chain and shackle could.

"Release him now," he repeated into her ear, "Or I will slit your throat and do it myself."

* * *

There were three men playing at dice outside the doors as then they entered, another four milling about the warehouse making a show of their hands on their swords, but more it seemed to remind the foremen they were not labor for loading the ship. Two men were near the entrance to the stables, while it looked like at least two of the foremen were armed as well. Assuming the skill of the foremen was negligible, that left nearly 10 well-armed, and presumably well-trained mercenaries that they would need to fight through to get out the front door. Those were just the men he could see. Aramis was not liking the odds so as he walked with Celeste through the warehouse and stables, his eyes flicked over possible escape routes, noting other doors, windows, the turns of the corridors to head back into the stable area. The opposite end had to lead to the dock and the ship. There were likely to be fewer guards there as there was limited access to the ship other than through the warehouse. But there might be nowhere to go other than into the water if they took that route.

There was no knowing what condition Porthos was in until he laid on eyes him. Aramis remembered to answer Celeste when spoken to, but that was about all he could manage now as he knew he was drawing nearer to his friend. The precious cargo she spoke of could not be more precious to him. But despite all he had seen of the handiwork of Celeste and her brother, Aramis was not prepared for the sight that met him in the last stall.

Porthos hung limply from his wrists, slumped against the wall at his back, head hanging. A horrific pattern of lashes scattered across his body and blood dripped from his chest and arms. It was impossible to know what flesh was not damaged and to Aramis, it looked as if not an inch of him was unmarked. Aramis leaned a hand on the doorframe as Celeste entered ahead of him, weak for just a moment as his chest constricted in the shock of what he saw. The light was rising in the sky, but in the dim stall it was hard to make out all of the damage. It appeared the left side of Porthos's chest was a ruined mess, and Aramis forced himself forward to stand behind Celeste. His breath caught in his throat as his eyes made sense of what he was seeing.

"My God," he exhaled. The bastards had branded him.

"Lovely, yes?" she answered, "This one will outshine even Marie-Claire." Aramis silently slipped his main gauche from its sheath at his back. Always aware of his own body, he noted the slight tremor in his hands, a sign of the rage he was working to keep at bay. Every instinct was screaming at him to kill this woman now. But the cuffs around Porthos's wrists and the vile iron collar on his neck were forged, not rope. He would need a key and he was sure Celeste would have it. He felt her leaning back into him, encouraging his embrace and he was more than happy to comply. In one fluid motion, his main gauche was at her throat and his left hand had immobilized her other arm, the one he knew would be reaching for the stiletto in her pocket.

"Release him," his voice was little more than a growl as he pressed steel to her exposed neck.

She pushed ineffectively against him, grasping at the arm across her chest that held the long dagger and trying to reach her hidden blade. His grip tightened and she stiffened in his arms.

"Release him now," Aramis repeated into her ear, "Or I will slit your throat and do it myself." He had never said words that he meant more. The rage he felt in the forest during the skirmish the day before was a shadow compared to the hatred rolling through him. He would kill her, he had no doubt.

"The keys are on my waist," she answered, her voice tight with either fear or anger. It was hard to know and he did not care. Aramis slipped his left hand from her arm and pulled the stiletto from her pocket, tossing it aside. He fumbled at her waist and found the silver key ring and yanked hard. The chain snapped and came free. He pressed the keys to her hand.

"Do it quickly," he ordered softly. She moved her hands to fumble with the keys and Aramis kept his grip on her, forcing them both a step forward so that she was nearly pressed against Porthos's chest. Pinned between them, Celeste had little room to maneuver and Aramis needed to get closer. He was not sure that the musketeer would be able to walk out of here – which meant a standoff with Celeste as a hostage until D'Artagnan could figure out a way to help him. While Celeste worked at the cuff at Porthos's left wrist, Aramis reached his arm over her shoulder to gently cup the insensate man's chin.

"Porthos," he said intensely, raising up his friend's face. A red line scored his cheek where a thong of a whip had caught him but more concerning where the haggard lines that spoke of exhaustion and deep pain despite his semi-conscious state. And he was partially alert, moaning slightly as Aramis moved his head and struggling to push his half-lidded eyes further open. "Porthos," Aramis intoned again with more urgency as he tightened his grip on his friend's chin. He didn't want to hurt him, but he had to know his condition

Celeste had gotten the cuff off Porthos's left wrist and his arm fell limply to his side, his knees buckling as he had to take more of his own weight to stay upright. But the big man didn't falter, he just pressed back against the wall, moaning and rolling his head out of Aramis's grasp. As Celeste began on the collar, Porthos's eyes pushed open to reveal a glassy gaze that roamed indiscriminately around the room, focusing on nothing. Aramis let out an exhale. This was bad. He was conscious, but his mind could be anywhere. He wasn't even sure if Porthos was aware that he was here.

The collar came free and Aramis moved his hand to catch it as it swung open. The chaffing and bruising around Porthos's neck were heartbreaking. As gently as he could, Aramis pulled the foul thing from his brother, Porthos unconsciously helping him as he moaned slightly and rolled his head away from the iron band, letting it fall limply over his slumped left shoulder. Aramis fought the urge to throw the thing across the room and instead let the collar drop silently into the hay at their feet. Porthos slipped further, almost to his knees as he dangled from his right wrist.

Aramis shifted so that his blade pressed now into Celeste's back. "Finish this," he said flatly, pushing her toward the final cuff on the wall. He could see her hands trembling now and she had trouble fitting the key into the lock.

"Porthos," Aramis urged, his hand returning to carefully cup his friend's cheek, "Porthos look at me," he insisted, lightly clapping his cheek in hopes of rousing him. Finally, his friend met his gaze, but his eyes were unsettled and foggy. "I'm here," he said softly, "I'm here and I am getting you out of here."

Porthos furrowed his brow, confusion spreading across his face as if he were listening to a language he did not understand. "Porthos, can you stand?" Aramis asked, reaching down to help raise the man to his feet. Porthos did not react, still gazing at him without recognition and fighting to keep his eyes open. Aramis fought to steady himself. As soon as that last lock was done, he really was going to kill her.

That was the last thought in his mind before something crashed down on the back of his head and sent him into blackness.

* * *

No one had noticed the dark figure that detached itself from the back of the coach and merged into the shadows across from the warehouse. From behind a stack of crates, D'Artagnan watched the coach pull to a standstill across the way and was relieved to see Aramis get out first, apparently of his own volition. Aramis did a scan of the area, assessing the threat, D'Artagnan told himself. Then he paused a moment, looking out past the coach to somewhere across the street. D'Artagnan knew that Aramis would have no idea where he was, but he recognized the slight dip of the marksman's head as a signal. Aramis was unhurt, this was the right place.

He continued to watch as Aramis helped the lady in the blue dress from the coach. D'Artagnan had no idea who she was, but if she had led them to Porthos, he did not care. Aramis and the woman walked through the large doors of the warehouse as the coach pulled away and turned into the next opening in the building, the carriage house.

D'Artagnan scanned the street, noting the three men playing at dice by the entrance to the warehouse. They wore blades at their hip and were clearly guards. No one else seemed to be around. It was the early hours of the morning and as the sun rose, more life would appear on these streets. For now, it was unnervingly quiet and D'Artagnan felt very much alone as he ran his eyes over the building, looking for alternative entrances.

The windows on the lower level were barred, but above they were not. However, there was no easy access, until D'Artagnan noticed a hoist dangling from a movable arm set at the roof line. It was not in position now, but if he swung it around, he could use the lines to get to a second-floor window. He had to hope the guards didn't notice, or he had to come up with a distraction to pull their attention. He considered the crates he was hiding behind. If they were combustible and he used a little gunpowder, he could create quite the diversion.

There was also the entrance to the carriage house, which hopefully connected to another corridor in the warehouse. There could be more mercenaries he thought. Maybe checking the stables first would be a better idea, see if he could figure out how many men were there by the number of mounts in the stalls. Both plans had merit, but D'Artagnan wasn't sure.

D'Artagnan was still finding his footing with the musketeers. He knew his swordsmanship was excellent, and improving every day. He was not a bad shot with a pistol and there was time still for his hand to hand combat to improve. But strategy? He was a farmer, not a soldier, and he thought he might never have the quick insight and battle instincts that his three comrades possessed. It was like they could see the future sometimes when they made choices. D'Artagnan wasn't certain which approach was best and wished one of the more experienced musketeers were here to make the call.

That he wasn't already rushing headlong through the front door was a testament to Athos and all his training. Head over heart he kept hearing and it wasn't just about sword fights he realized. Thoughts of his mentor led him to think that perhaps that was the best course of action. He had no idea what he might find inside, and if both he and Aramis were to fall, there would be little hope that Athos could find Porthos. D'Artagnan had been lucky that Athos and Aramis found him in the Court of Miracles after he had raced off to find Porthos without leaving so much as a word to anyone as to where he was going. His friends had taken multiple opportunities to remind him of that as they made their frantic journey to _Le Havre_. He could not just rely on luck and his own skill.

At another time in his life, he would not have even considered the possibility of his own failure, or that of his seemingly invincible comrades. But after getting bested so thoroughly by Vadim, D'Artagnan's self-assurance had been shaken. Not enough to terrify him, but enough to heed Athos's warnings about his own mortality. He wasn't afraid of losing his life though, he was afraid that the cost of his failure would be Porthos and Aramis.

D'Artagnan bit his knuckles and raked his eyes over the building again. His heart told him to find a way in, that his friends were in danger. His head said to seek Athos, that together they could affect a rescue. He was uncertain as to what to do, but he was acutely aware that giving in to indecision and just waiting was the worst idea of all. D'Artagnan had to make a choice.

* * *

The sound assaulting his ears was his own deep groan. Aramis squinched his eyes shut against the pain throbbing in his head and tried to gather his thoughts. Someone had hit him. He was breathing audibly, trying to settle down the fire in his brain. Rough hands were on him, pulling at his arms. He tried to push them away, but his limbs were not yet under the control of his mind and he felt his leathers pulled from his body. Someone grabbed his wrists and coarse hemp rope was twisted to bind them together.

"Get the long rope," a nasal male voice demanded as he felt his arms pulled high above his head. He was sitting on the ground and felt the brush of fabric against his shirt and the telltale rustle of a woman's skirts. Aramis winced as he tried without success to raise his head from his chest. Another rope was threaded roughly under the loop binding his hands. The hands supporting him let go, but he didn't fall as he was now kept upright by the tension in the rope pulling his arms overhead. He felt a tugging in his shoulders and the rope started to raise, mercilessly straining his arms and shoulders as he was pulled to a standing position. Aramis scrabbled to get his feet under him to take the pressure off his wrists and shoulders, but he still wasn't coordinated enough to keep his full weight on his feet. It didn't matter as even though he was standing, the rope kept pulling, stretching his body to its limits. He winced and then felt his feet lift from the floor, all his weight taken by his shoulders as he hung from his wrists. Aramis let out a frustrated grunt. He really hated being strung up.

He kept his eyes pinched closed as fragmented thoughts came back to him. The woman, the sutures in his arm, the warehouse . . . and Porthos. He had found Porthos. Aramis tried to lift his head, his stomach rolling in response. He wasn't just trussed up like a goose at market, he was also concussed. The rescue plan just got a lot more complicated.

A blow across his jaw sent stabs of fire through his head already aching head and elicited a grunt of pain. Aramis forced his eyes open. Someone wanted his attention.

His vision swam and he blinked rapidly as molten colors solidified into solid objects. Porthos was where he had left him, slumped along the wall, his right wrist still cuffed over his head, a long chain threaded through a ring at the end. At least they had left him be and not forced the collar and shackles back on him. But he was unmoving, maybe unconscious.

"Porthos," he breathed through gritted teeth.

"I'd worry about yourself _,"_ a familiar female voice snarled from his other side. Slowly, so as not to set his head swimming again, Aramis forced his gaze to the right. Celeste was there, cornflower blue dress covered in bits of hay, her slim stiletto in her hands.

Aramis fought the instinct to struggle against the ropes around his wrists, knowing the knots would only tighten. He gingerly tilted his head back to see how he was held. A long rope was passed through the loop of the ties round his hands, pulled over a block and fall in the ceiling and tied off by the door. He was not going to be able to get out of this without some help. He turned is attention back to the woman holding them prisoner.

Celeste's face was unreadable as she slowly walked toward him but Aramis could see hatred burning in her gaze. He had betrayed her, and he knew she would seek vengeance, probably upon his body before ultimately taking his life. His heart quickened with a flash of fear at the thought of what she might do, but a glance toward Porthos crumbled against the wall gave Aramis all the resolve he needed to face her. Time she spent toying with him was another minute that the ship was delayed at port and another minute for D'Artagnan and Athos to find them. Aramis swallowed as Celeste trailed the thin knife along his face, down the side of his neck, and rested the point in the hollow of his throat.

"I feel like we have been here before," she said sweetly, applying some pressure.

"Then you will remember, I am not afraid of you," Aramis answered flatly.

"More the fool you are then," Celeste said with a smile. She moved the knife, flicking it across the laces of his shirt and slicing them one by one, "I'm going to enjoy skinning you almost as much as I enjoyed cutting him," she purred.

"Celeste, we don't have time for this," the nasal male voice had returned. Her hand stilled, the knife left pressing into the soft flesh just below his sternum.

Aramis gave a twist of his head to take in the speaker. He was dressed as richly as her, brocade coat and fine boots. The basket of his rapier was adorned in silver and gold and the pistol on his belt had ivory inlays. Aramis realized this must be the brother.

"Benoit, that ship will sail when I say and not a moment sooner," she snapped, momentarily dropping the sweet façade she had maintained at even the most gruesome of moments this evening.

Benoit was young, maybe younger than D'Artagnan. Aramis had not expected that. This entire time, even after meeting Celeste, Aramis had thought it was Benoit who had orchestrated the kidnapping but now it appeared that it had been Celeste all along.

"Slit his throat and be done," Benoit said approaching them, and taking her hand with the knife, "Or if you want something more agonizing, rip him here," he moved her hand with the blade to press lower on his abdomen. "A stomach wound here would not only be lethal, but he would die in torment. Hmm?" He seemed to be encouraging that approach and Aramis couldn't help but give a little exhale as he applied more pressure to the blade.

"No, that is not good enough," her voice was flat and threatening, "I want to watch him suffer for what he did."

"That's what the other one is for," Benoit almost whined, "I have no care for this one. You and your pets. I'm tired of it. Let's leave and finish what we planned. For father. For _us_ ," he finished, emphasizing the last word in a way that made Aramis's skin crawl.

"Or you could just bring us both," Aramis said cheekily, knowing if he could get them to cut him down, he had a fair chance of overpowering the boy, even with his hands tied, "Two for the rate of one?" Aramis was completely taken off guard when Benoit dropped his sister's hand and backhanded him across the jaw. He grunted in pain and felt copper in his mouth as he bit into his cheek. Aramis turned his head and spit blood.

"It was just a suggestion," Aramis provoked, "Seeing how much your sister seems to enjoy my company." He was ready for the next strike but that didn't stop him from letting out a groan at the impact. His head was still throbbing from the blow that had rendered him unconscious. Spots began to dance before his eyes. While he was certainly diverting Benoit's attention from making a quick death of him, he was not going to remain conscious much longer if Benoit's fist kept slamming into his head. Aramis was going to have to provoke the boy to some other action that kept him conscious and able to draw out the time.

"You know that she brought me here so that she could take me with her," he said smiling, "we shared quite the intimate night," Aramis watched Benoit's face draw into anger as he misread the passion in Aramis's eyes for lust, just as his sister had. Enraged, Benoit's hands balled into tight fists, and he turned dangerously toward his sister.

"No, no, Benoit," Celeste said, her voice regaining the sugar coating she had perfected so well, "He is lying. Don't listen to him."

"Then why is he here, Celeste?" Benoit was angry, and to Aramis's practiced ear this sounded like an old wound. He had aimed well and struck deep with his carefully chosen words.

Aramis spared a glance to Porthos while the two siblings argued. He remained as he had been, unmoving and curled in on himself, limp as a battered rag doll a child had abandoned in the street. Aramis's heart was breaking to see his friend so abused. There would be no help from that quarter.

"Benoit, you don't understand," Celeste's face was painted with wide-eyed fear and desperation. She was a chameleon this woman, able to wear any mask of emotion at any moment, "He overpowered me at the brothel. He . . . he _ravaged_ me," her voice broke on strangled cry, "He forced me to bring him here," Celeste flung herself into her brother's arms, sobbing hysterically. "He deserves more than an easy death for what he did to me."

"She's lying," Aramis said dryly, "She would say anything to stay in your arms. How could I know of this place unless she willingly led me here?"

Benoit stood holding his sobbing sister in his arms, back rigid and muscles so tense Aramis was surprised he wasn't vibrating. If Aramis had any hopes that Benoit would believe him they were dashed when he set his sister away and turned on him with a face of fury and despair.

"How dare you touch her," he growled, "I will flay the skin from your body for that," he stepped behind Aramis and the marksman felt a strong tug at his shirt as Benoit ripped it open down the back. Aramis couldn't help but give a shudder. This was a little bit more of a distraction than Aramis had intended. A hand grabbed his hair and pulled his head backward.

"You will be begging for her knife by the time I am even half through with you," Benoit released his hair and Aramis's head sagged forward. The spots swirled in his vision again and he fought to keep his head clear. His eyes found Porthos again, and he steadied himself with deep breaths. He would endure this for Porthos, he would take whatever punishment they served him as long as it bought time for his friends.

"Touching your love for him," Celeste had moved next to him and grabbed his chin in her hands, forcing his eyes to meet hers, "But think on this," she said, clearly pleased with herself, "his last sight of you will be that of a slab of meat hanging from the rafters like so much beef at the slaughter house. Benoit has a strong arm and we have time yet before we sail. He will shred you beyond repair."

Aramis was not expecting the first lash. The bits of shirt offered some small protection but the thongs stung where they impacted bare skin. The next strike hit and he grunted against the pain, but this time there was also the sharp sear of cut flesh. Aramis focused on his senses, his breathing, as the force of the blow set him swaying at the end of the rope and amplified the throbbing in his head. The next blow fell, ripping across his back like tendrils of fire. Aramis howled Porthos's name - in pain, in frustration, in anger, in desperation as he denied the misery being inflicted on his body.

Before the next blow could fall, Porthos's eyes snapped open.


	18. Chapter 18

_A/N: Apologies for being a day late in posting - real life had other plans for me this weekend! Thank you as always to those who continue to leave comments and follow this story. I appreciate so much each and every review and favorite. Glad to know someone is still reading ;) My special thanks to Issai for her dedicated beta-reading skills and her kind encouragement. The mistakes are all mine, no sharing._

* * *

 _The red-hot fire of the brand was all he could remember_

 _he shifted into a place defined by pain_

 _consuming him – a fire raged_

 _he was being burned alive_

 _the flames claimed him_

 _he receded_

 _..._

 _he burned_

 _his chest pulsated fire_

 _each breath was agony_

 _he tried to stop breathing_

 _..._

 _he rose out of blackness into red_

 _he sought to sink again_

 _his tortured body held him back_

 _he was tethered – chained – to his existence_

 _he wept_

 _..._

 _His mind returned eventually._

 _He had never begged for death before, was not sure how. But neither death nor God were near him as he drifted, utterly alone_

 _Thoughts were hard, were their own agony. There was too much his mind could not touch. He searched for something safe, something not on fire. Respite. He desperately needed respite but there was no_ _solace. No space untouched._

 _..._

 _"Porthos."_

 _What was that word?_

 _..._

 _"Porthos."_

 _He should know this word._

 _..._

 _"Porthos."_

 _His name. His name. His name._

 _He held on to that._

 _..._

 _"Porthos."_

 _He knew that voice as deeply as he knew his name._

 _..._

 _"Look at me."_

 _It was strong, that voice. It was not to be denied. He struggled to find it._

 _..._

 _"I'm here."_

 _Struggled to find his eyes again so he could see the face that he knew should be there._

 _..._

 _"I'm here."_

 _He wanted to answer, but he had forgotten how to speak_

 _..._

 _"I'm getting you out of here."_

 _He listened._

 _He hurt._

 _..._

 _He drifted somewhere filled with red heat._

 _Pain was made of clouds that rushed into the spaces between his thoughts._

 _He didn't want to stay any more._

 _..._

 _He came back._

 _..._

 _Voices again._

 _But not in his ears – in his heart._

 _"Breathe."_

 _Aramis – he found the name! – Aramis. Aramis._

 _He kept saying it so he wouldn't lose it. Rolling the word around in his head with each intake of breath._

 _"Death is not an option."_

 _Athos – unrelenting, undeniable._

 _He remembered. He was strong. Beneath the pain, he had found his strength._

 _"We will find you."_

 _Determined, hopeful – D'Artagnan._

 _He hurt, but the fog of his mind was receding._

 _..._

 _He remembered . . ._

 _He remembered what they had done . . ._

 _He remembered what they had done . . ._

 _He didn't want to go back!_

 _It took all his brothers to give him courage._

 _It took all his courage not to retreat into the blackness he had been hiding in before._

 _..._

 _"I am here."_

 _He remembered that! That was real. That was solid and there had been a hand on his body that had not brought him pain._

 _"I am here."_

 _Aramis – he breathed the name._

 _That had been real._

 _The clouds dispersed._

 _He hurt. But he stayed._

 _He struggled to bring his mind under his control._

 _To open his eyes, to move his arms, to take possession of the body they had tried to take from him._

 _..._

 _"Porthos!"_

 _It was a cry so full of sorrow, so full of pain it pulled him like an anchor in deep waters, tethering him solidly to his own being._

* * *

His eyes snapped open.

Porthos locked eyes on the fierce gaze of Aramis, his friend, his brother, his anchor back from whatever hell he had been in. The marksman's face greeted him with a hungry smile. Porthos saw the same joy and danger in Aramis's face as in the heat of a melee. Aramis was happy and Aramis was ready to kill somebody.

Porthos recognized the whoosh of air that proceeded the strike of a lash all too well, but it was not his flesh that felt the fire. Aramis's face contorted with pain as he let out a growl as fearsome as a wounded beast. But Aramis's anguished cry didn't return, instead, he found Porthos's eyes again and if anything, his smile deepened. It took a moment for Porthos to register why . . .

 _. . . Aramis dangling from a rope . . ._

 _. . . the man holding the lash behind him . . ._

 _. . . Her – her in that blue dress – her, laughing in the corner . . ._

 _. . . His own body free of all but one chain_ . . .

. . . and then Porthos smiled too.

His roar was born of hatred, of vengeance, of retribution and he bellowed like a hound of Satan unleashed as he pushed himself up from the floor, grabbing hold of the chain and pulling with an inhuman strength tempered under six days of torture. Rose up like a demon spewed from the mouth of hell itself and threw himself at the man with the whip. An ear-shattering crack punctuated his movement as he literally ripped the boards from the wall where his right hand had been chained. He barely registered that he had pushed past Aramis as his only intent was to get his hands around the neck of the man with the whip.

He felt the sting of a lash fall on his shoulder but what was that to him? He had endured so many lashes, so many abuses it was like drops of fire onto a pool of lava. He bared his teeth as he brought up his hands, grabbing the man by the shoulders and shoving backward until he ran him into the solid wood of the doorframe. Porthos adjusted his hold, fitting his hands over the man's throat. He tightened his grip, returning the terrified stare of the man he was about to kill, pressing slowly, unrepentantly on the soft flesh beneath his fingers.

* * *

Aramis had his eyes locked on Porthos's gaze when the next lash fell, but the fire it brought to his body only fueled the joy burning through his heart. He felt himself smiling, on the verge of laughter, as their unspoken language communicated in mere heartbeats what words would never have been able to express. He saw the feral smile cross Porthos's face as he caught on to their predicament and recognized himself as their salvation. In a rush, a roar and a sheering crack of wood Porthos was up and brushing past him before another strike could fall from Benoit's hand.

The nudge from Porthos sent Aramis swaying on the end of the rope and as he spun he caught a glimpse of the big musketeer, his hands wrapped around Benoit's throat. Satisfaction flared in his heart. Maybe his immortal soul would be permanently stained by this, but by God, Aramis wanted that bastard dead.

A flurry of blue caught the corner of his eye and he shifted around enough to see Celeste rising from the floor near where Porthos had been chained, her discarded stiletto now clutched in her hand. With a shrill cry, she raised it, running toward Porthos as he slowly strangled the life out her flailing brother.

"Porthos!" Aramis shouted in warning even as he used the light momentum of the swaying rope and the adrenaline-driven strength surging through his body to raise his legs and kick out at the frenzied woman. He caught her hard in the side and shoulder and she crashed into the opposite wall with a thud and a shriek.

Breathing heavily and wincing from the pain in his shoulders, Aramis struggled to twist his bound wrists enough to get his hands on the rope suspending him from the ceiling beam. The rope grated brutally but he managed to slip his hands enough to get his fingers around the hemp. While he could not free himself, he at least could use his hands to take some of the weight from his shoulders and better control his own motion.

Quickly recovering from the unexpected blow Celeste scrambled on the floor to reach her brother's whip. As she gripped the leather handle and pushed herself to her feet, her face contorted with fury, a long bloody gash from her own stiletto splitting her cheek from ear to chin. Enraged, she staggered toward Aramis, a sidearm flick of the whip flashing out toward his torso.

Using the grip he had on the ropes as leverage, Aramis kicked out with more control this time, managing to catch Celeste's awkward blow against his thigh and swing his other leg around to her other side. With another twist and kick, he wrapped his legs around her upper body, effectively pinning her arms to her sides. She screamed and struggled but Aramis held on despite the pull of the ragged rope against his fingers and the fire burning in his over-extended arms.

As Aramis fought to keep hold of Celeste, Porthos let out an anguished cry and crumpled to the ground. Fighting for his life, Benoit had gotten a hold of a farrier's mallet hanging on the wall and smashed the head into Porthos's chest, crushing into the wounded flesh of the raw skin of the fresh brand.

"Porthos!" Aramis yelled again as the large musketeer curled in on himself in a heap on the floor. Benoit gasped for breath, a hand at his throat, the mallet dangling at his side. As Benoit recovered, Celeste screamed his name, still struggling to free herself. Benoit looked dazed and uncertain but Aramis knew that in a moment the boy would regain his senses and he would not be able to fend off both siblings. Aramis struggled desperately against the ropes, only managing to dig the hemp deeper into his damaged skin. Blood ran down his forearms but he didn't stop.

From outside the stall, the sounds of shouting reached Aramis's ears. He caught the undeniable ring of steel on steel and the anguished shout of a dying man.

Benoit had heard it too, as he raised his head and looked down the corridor to see what was happening. A snarl escaped his throat and he gave Porthos a brutal kick to his side. Porthos moaned and curled tighter around himself and Aramis howled in anger as Benoit stood over the incapacitated musketeer, the small hammer raised above his head.

"Don't touch him!" he threatened, "I swear you will die by my hands! You and your whore of a sister!" Celeste's screams and Aramis's threats were enough to provoke Benoit's attention away from Porthos and back to Aramis. Benoit pushed forward and slammed the mallet into Aramis's side, the blow catching his bottom rib. Aramis let out a painful cry and his hold slipped from around Celeste. Benoit managed to pull her free and she clutched at him for support, her entire body trembling but whether from fear or rage, Aramis was not sure. Benoit had murder in his eye, but Aramis could hear the sound of battle moving closer. Panicked men began running down the corridor.

"You'd better leave while you can," Aramis said full of confidence and authority, "Those men will tear you apart when they see what you have done." Benoit shook his head in cocky disbelief and pushed Celeste away from him, toward the door of the stall. She stumbled and caught herself on the doorframe while Benoit moved to draw his sword.

"You'll be dead long before they get here," Benoit promised. He raised his arm to strike at Aramis, apparently forgetting that the musketeer was far from immobilized. Aramis drew up his legs and extended a forceful two-footed kick into Benoit's exposed chest. The boy staggered backward, tripping over Porthos and landing on his back half sprawled into the corridor.

Aramis let out a shrill whistle and called out to his comrades, "Here! We're here! Last stall!" Aramis heard the muffled shout of his name and the sounds of the skirmish outside intensified. Benoit was scrambling to his feet, ready to advance on Aramis again, but pulled up short as an armed man collided into him.

"What the hell is going on?" Benoit demanded.

"We're under attack," the man replied, panting for air, "Four of my men are dead. We can't get out the front." Aramis could see indecision flash across Benoit's face, his need for retribution warring with his own self-preservation. Benoit let out a frustrated yell, slamming a fist into the wall.

"Dammit!" Benoit yelled, "Gather the rest of the men. We'll get to the ship. We are all but ready to sail," the mercenary nodded and ran off. Benoit moved to his sister putting a hand on her arm, "Celeste, we have to go," he said, giving her a slight tug.

At Benoit's touch, Celeste suddenly regained her focus, jerking her arm away from his grasp and pulling Benoit's dagger from his belt. She turned toward Aramis, fury etching her face in a grim mask.

"I'm going to slice out your innards and feed them to you!" she shrieked, utterly possessed by rage and vengeance. She took no more than a step toward Aramis, before Benoit's arm snaked out to catch her around the waist.

"Celeste, no!" he cried urgently, "We don't have time!" She struggled against him but he had the upper hand as he pulled her back into the corridor.

"No!" she screamed at him, "No! I want him dead for what he's done!"

"Stop! Celeste!" Benoit took her by the wrist that held the dagger, "It's over! We have to go. Now! The ship is ready, we need to leave!" Celeste struggled against his grip but he would not give over, "Celeste! Stop! All of this is for nothing if we do not make it to _Saint-Pierre_ . . .to father! Don't forget that!" he gave her a little shake and then pushed her away from him, glaring. "I will not stay here and die for the sake of your vengeance." They stared at each other for a long moment and then a crash of wood and metal echoed down the hallway. Tendrils of smoke billowed down the corridor, Benoit glanced quickly over his shoulder and Celeste's eyes widened. When he grabbed her hand this time, she did not resist, and they both ran off toward to exit to the dock.

"Porthos!" Aramis called urgently, trying to rose the prone musketeer. The big man stirred, struggling to raise himself from the floor as smoke began to billow into the stall. Aramis caught the smell of burning wood. "Porthos, we need to get out of here!" Aramis called again. As the big man struggled to rise, a familiar figure in brown leather emerged from the haze.

"D'Artagnan!" Aramis's relief was evident in his voice. "Careful!" he cautioned as the Gascon bent to get an arm around Porthos, "He's badly wounded." Aramis watched D'Artagnan's face soften as he redirected his movements to take hold of Porthos by the arm, his rapier still clutched in the other hand. Porthos raised his head and he saw D'Artagnan give a reassuring smile as he helped the big man to stand. If the wounds and marks on Porthos's body gave D'Artagnan pause, he did not show it in his face, just gently eased Porthos back to lean against the door of the stall.

"We have to get out of here," he said gently, "Can you stay here while I get Aramis down?" Porthos was breathing heavily but gave a nod, weakly extending an arm to put a hand on D'Artagnan's chest, tapping him over the heart. D'Artagnan nodded his head in acknowledgment and Aramis felt something ache in his own heart as their newest brother and his oldest friend greeted and reassured each other. D'Artagnan dropped his hand from Porthos and turned to examine Aramis's situation.

"This is an interesting approach for a rescue," he said lightly, but Aramis could see the worry and concern in D'Artagnan's eyes.

"I was improvising," Aramis answered, struggling to keep his warring emotions from overwhelming him. They had been too close to losing their lives and too late to prevent the horrific damage Celeste and Benoit had inflicted on Porthos. They needed to get Porthos to safety, but every inch of him was screaming to go after the people who had done this.

D'Artagnan took in the block and fall system by which Aramis was suspended and moved into the stall where the rope was tied off. He sheathed his rapier and swiftly unlaced the rope from where it was wrapped around the cleat set in the wall. D'Artagnan kept tension on the rope as it came free, bearing Aramis's weight for a moment as he gently eased the marksman's feet to the floor. Then he rapidly let out the slack so that the musketeer could lower his arms.

Aramis was grateful for the ground beneath his feet but at the loss of the rope holding him upright, he dropped unceremoniously to his knees moaning as his shoulders and arms were finally able to lower. A wave of dizziness washed over him, the abrupt change in position reawakening the throb in his head and the nausea of the concussion.

D'Artagnan was at his side in moments, gently lifting Aramis's chin to look into his eyes. Aramis's vision swam and he blinked rapidly, trying to get a clear image of the earnest face before him. His body hurt in too many places and his breath came in staccato gasps.

"Aramis," the Gascon's voice was soft but urgent, "are you with me?" Aramis's eyes focused finally, meeting D'Artagnan's questioning look with a small smile.

"Takes more than this to stop a musketeer," he quipped, working to steady his breathing, "A little help though, would be appreciated," he said, raising his bound wrists between them. D'Artagnan pulled his main gauche from his back and carefully slipped the blade between Aramis's wrists. With a few sharp cuts the thick rope fell away, exposing the raw, bleeding rings of abused skin. Aramis let out a pained sigh, "Thank you," he offered as he reached out to grab D'Artagnan's hand. Understanding his intent, D'Artagnan helped pull Aramis to his feet.

Aramis felt unsteady, his arms and shoulders ached, his back was a web of fire, a piercing pain in his side suggested cracked or broken ribs but his self-control and determination were stronger than all of that. He clapped D'Artagnan on the shoulder as the young man sheathed his weapon then moved past him to make his way toward Porthos. He heard D'Artagnan's sharp intake of breath as he got a look at the wounds on Aramis's back beneath his torn shirt.

"The smoke?" Aramis enquired over his shoulder, preventing D'Artagnan from asking the questions he knew were on his lips. Aramis was not in any emotional condition to address this now.

"That would be the fire," D'Artagnan said matter-of-factly. Aramis felt a small wave of relief as D'Artagnan picked up on the cue. Aramis made his way the few short steps to where Porthos leaned heavily against the doorframe, the big man's shoulders slumped down and his head hanging to his chest.

"The fire?" Aramis questioned even as his hands reached to gently grasp Porthos and carefully raise his head.

"I may have set the warehouse on fire," D'Artagnan confessed. There was something comforting to Aramis in the banter playing out between him and D'Artagnan that helped steady him as he clasped the face of his beloved friend in his hands.

"Interesting approach for a rescue, indeed," Aramis said, a deeply satisfied smile gracing his face as he found Porthos meeting his gaze, really truly here and present. There was so much though in Porthos's eyes – pain, sorrow, fear, hope. Aramis was not surprised to see a tear fall from his friend's face. He carefully wiped it away from with the pad of his thumb, then both men leaned closer, Aramis resting his forehead on the top of Porthos's head. Aramis let out a deep, relieved sigh. There was no need to say anything else.

"I can improvise too," D'Artagnan said quietly at his side,

Aramis gave a little exhale as he broke his contact with Porthos to look at D'Artagnan. "Treville will not be pleased when he hears you burned down _Le Havre_ ," he said with a fond smile.

D'Artagnan gave a shrug, holding up Aramis's doublet and weapons belt retrieved from somewhere in the stall. Aramis took them up, wincing as he shrugged into the doublet. He left it unbuckled and quickly fastened his weapons belt over top. He smiled to himself to see that D'Artagnan had smoothly shifted to ease Porthos's arm over his shoulder, helping him to stand from where he was leaning heavily on the doorframe.

"As grateful as I am to be reunited," D'Artagnan said, "We need to leave. Now." There was no question as to the urgency punctuating his voice, nor the fact that the smoke was thickening. Aramis shifted to Porthos's left side, taking his friend by the arm in one hand and drawing his rapier with the other.

"Let's move," Aramis said, the two men working to keep Porthos on his feet between them. It did not escape Aramis how tentative his friend's steps were, nor how quiet he had been. He knew there was something deeply wrong even beyond the obvious wounds he could see, but now was not the time to dwell on it. He pushed his concerns into the background of his thoughts as they concentrated on getting out of the back of the burning building. As they moved toward the exit, Aramis's eyes flashed from side to side, searching for a glimpse of a cornflower blue skirt.

"After we get out of here," Aramis said, his voice little more than a low growl, "I'm going to hunt down Benoit and his sister. They will pay for this."

"No need," D'Artagnan replied, his tone just as intense, "Athos is outside."

* * *

Athos had been saddling his horse when D'Artagnan ran into du Foy's stable, lungs heaving for air as he explained where Aramis was. Although D'Artagnan didn't know what was in the building, Athos did know that one of the three ships that he and du Foy had identified as possible targets was berthed at the same quay. Porthos was there somewhere, of that Athos was certain.

Athos had sent the stable boy running off with a message to the King's garrison at _Le Havre_ and bearing Treville's request for aid and then he and D'Artagnan mounted up, taking a breakneck pace through the narrow but mostly deserted streets. The sun had crested the horizon as they pulled up in an alley opposite the warehouse. Dismounting, they had walked their horses through the early morning shadows and tied them just across the road.

Athos had been impressed by D'Artagnan's assessment of the building's possible entrance points, as well as his protégé's good sense to return to du Foy's for assistance and not rush headlong into a situation he didn't know. With both Porthos and Aramis somewhere inside, it was far too risky to go in alone, with no plan. Athos was confident though that if they could create an opportunity to support escape, both of those men would be able to capitalize on it. They couldn't at this point be sure if either of them were still in the building, or if Aramis's deception had been discovered, but there was no time left for debate.

With only two of them and no understanding of what was inside, the best course of action was to simply flush everyone out. Using bottles of cognac in the crates D'Artagnan had hidden behind earlier and sacrificing a few strips of cloth from their precious stock of bandages, they crafted several improvised fire bombs. Crossing the street, Athos drew his rapier and engaged the men gambling at dice. Their shouts caused someone to open the warehouse door and D'Artagnan pushed his way in quickly, tossing the flaming bottles as he went. With no gunpowder, there were no explosions, but as the glass shattered and the cognac spilled, the flames quickly trailed up the flammable liquid and caught along the flooring and shelving. D'Artagnan drew his sword and moved inside while Athos finished off the mercenaries in the front and made his way around the building to the back, counting on the flames and smoke to drive everyone to the rear exits toward the docks.

When Benoit and Celeste ran out of the building toward the waiting ship, they came face to face with a figure in black leather standing defiantly between them and the ship, his musketeer pauldron clearly visible as he stood with rapier and dagger at the ready.

Athos had hoped to see Aramis and Porthos making their escape, but the woman in the blue dress that D'Artagnan had described would do almost as well. She was running hand in hand with a young man, dressed too richly to be another of the hired thugs they had encountered. This had to be the brother and sister.

"Hold in the name of the King!" Athos shouted. The pair pulled themselves to a stop, the man putting the woman behind him as five more men rushed to his side. He shouted something Athos could not make out and gestured toward him and the ship. Athos bared his teeth in anticipation. He did not have to hear the orders to know that they were going to try and fight their way past him. Athos had positioned himself strategically along the quay at a point where overturned long boats and stacks of barrels and crates narrowed the access to the ship behind him to only three abreast. He might be only one man, but he could keep a dozen men at bay by defending in that space.

They rushed him with a roar and Athos had only a quick moment to assess his targets before they were on him. He met the first attacker with an easy parry that slid the mercenary's sword up and away from his body, leaving his chest exposed for Athos to slice in with his main gauche. Blood gushed from the wound and the man fell at Athos's feet, becoming an obstacle for the others to maneuver around. Two more filled the gap, trying to flank him, but there wasn't enough room to get beside him and Athos's whirling blades stayed in constant motion, breeding caution in the attacking men.

Athos sliced through a man with a wicked lunge to the torso, then slammed another in the face with the pommel of his dagger, sending him reeling as blood poured from his nose. Athos moved like a dancer, arms, legs, hands all in tune with his breathing. His mind narrowed its focus to blade versus blade, his senses extended, noting the whisper of steel through air with enough time to dodge the blade one of his desperate opponents had clumsily flung toward him. His eyes saw the glint of steel in sunlight as he ducked below an arching strike and came up underneath the attacker's guard. He slammed his fist into the man's jaw, then grabbed him and spun him around, clutching the dazed man to his chest and using him as a shield to block the strike of another. He dropped his now dead shield to the ground and spun to the right to slice another man across the arm even as he extended his main gauche to his left to catch a man in the belly who had planned to strike a blow to his head. The bodies piled at his feet, and still, no one passed him.

Only two men stood now between him and Varade. Athos was ferocious in his attack – he wanted Varade skewered on his sword and nothing short of that would satisfy the white hot rage he had been carrying since Porthos's disappearance.

Behind the young Comte, Athos caught sight of three men making their way from the now burning building. Aramis's mop of curls, D'Artagnan's worn brown leathers, and supported between them, Porthos, staggering but on his feet. The surge of triumph and joy was intense, like sparks dancing from a tempered blade. Athos gave a battle cry and pushed at the remaining two men, shoving his main gauche into the eye socket of one so brutally that half the blade plunged through the man's head. Blood sprayed everywhere, so thick on Athos's palm he could not get purchase to pull his dagger free.

One more and Athos would have his blade buried in the heart of Varade. As he turned to face the final mercenary, someone shouted his name. D'Artagnan and Aramis both were yelling, frantic – Aramis releasing Porthos's arm and running pell-mell toward him, D'Artagnan still holding Porthos over his shoulder but fumbling for his pistol. A sound of cracking wood finally gave Athos a clue to the commotion and D'Artagnan fired his pistol as the pile of crates tumbled down on top of him.

Instinct took over as Athos hurled himself toward the other side of the dock, ducking his head protectively under his arm. He collided with the upturned long boat and hunkered down as the boxes tumbled. One caught his shoulder and he howled in pain, another bounced off that one, scraping across his back but miraculously not landing on him. Something caught his head and he saw stars. He slipped down further and curled up against the boat. He huddled in on himself as best he could as the crates and barrels rained down around him. There was an eerie moment of silence and everything stopped moving. Then shouting, someone was calling his name. Athos blinked, his vision clearing. He stayed where he was, mentally assessing how badly he was hurt. Other than his shoulder and the ache forming in his head, he was miraculously in one piece. The ring of steel on steel snapped him from his daze as he heard his name again.

"Athos!" Aramis was quite close, shouting out to him, something desperate carrying in his voice, "Athos, answer me!"

"I'm here!" Athos called out, pushing himself to his feet, "I'm fine!" he added, knowing those were the words Aramis was waiting to hear. He leaned heavily against the side of the overturned boat, the dock before him a litter of spilled cargo and bodies. Aramis was not two feet away from him, locked in combat with a man nearly the size of Porthos. Athos reached for his blade but realized his rapier was buried somewhere in the pile of overturned freight. There was no need though as Aramis nimbly moved over the upturned crates, shifting to a new a position and causing the larger man to lose his balance as he tried to follow. It was over a moment later as Aramis took advantage of the opening and ran his rapier through the large man's gut. He pulled the blade back and the man slumped down among the wreckage.

"Varade?" Athos asked, looking around him. Aramis stood on top of the crate, chest heaving from exertion, eyes scanning for the missing man. Athos scrambled on top of a crate searching around frantically. After all of this, they were not going to lose him now.

"There!" D'Artagnan's shout came from behind them. Both met looked over their shoulder to where D'Artagnan was standing protectively over Porthos, rapier drawn, arm pointing past them. "The ship!" Athos and Aramis snapped their heads the other direction to see Varade helping his sister to the gangplank. Sailors were slipping the last of the mooring ropes. Sails snapped and furled as they caught the breeze, ready to dance away from the pier the moment the last of the lines were released. Athos and Aramis started to scramble over the crates, but there was no way they could make it in time.

"Damn!" Athos bellowed, slamming a hand into the hull of the upturned boat.

Aramis froze, stood still as a statue staring at the ship.

"Pistol," he said, reaching a hand out to Athos but keeping his eyes locked on the distant figures. Athos knew it was an impossible shot, even as he reached to slide his pistol from its hanger and place it firmly in Aramis's hand. The marksman swung his arm up and extended it toward the ship, placing his hand where his eyes were already sighted. Any other man would have fired quickly, worrying that more distance would make the shot more difficult, but not Aramis. Athos knew him like he knew himself. It wasn't distance that was an obstacle to Aramis, but the rise of the wind and the pitch of the ship that made the shot so hard. Athos held his breath as the seconds ticked by and then Aramis gave a soft exhale, the telltale sign he had found his shot. A moment later there was a bang and flash of fire and smoke.

Athos looked to the ship, saw Varade being dragged on board as the gangplank was pulled and the ship pushed back from the dock, but his eyes were not good enough to know if the shot had found its mark.

The marksman let out a deep exhale and turned his head to Athos. "He's dead," Aramis said flatly, but his eyes remained dark, troubled.

"Aramis?" Athos questioned, uncertain as to what his brother was feeling. Aramis just shook his head, warding off any questions for later. He crouched down to make his way off the crate and Athos did not miss the wince of pain at the movement. Something had happened to the marksman during this long, desperate night, of that Athos was sure. He moved to catch Aramis's arm, lending support as they picked their way through the tumbled and broken cargo.

As they came free of the debris, six horsemen rode around the side of the now smoldering building, making their way toward them. In the heat of battle, Athos had not noticed the call up of the fire brigade or the seawater being pumped to quell the blaze. Beside him, Aramis reached for his rapier, preparing for this new threat, but Athos stayed his hand.

"That's the port guard," Athos said, "I sent for them before I left du Foy's. They'll take charge of whoever is left alive of Varade's men." Aramis nodded wearily, and Athos felt his hand loosen its grasp on his rapier. But he also felt the slight tremor pass through his friend's body. For all that they had gone through these past six days, Athos realized it was far from over.


	19. Chapter 19

_A/N: Looks likes Monday is becoming my new regular day to post. Thank you for the lovely comments about the last chapter - I truly appreciate hearing from everyone. My thanks as always go to Issai who keeps the story and characters true and shares wonderful ideas about writing and life. The mistakes are all mine._

* * *

Captain Demont led his men around the side of the burning warehouse and onto the docks, a veteran's eye taking in the chaotic scene before him. Laborers who had escaped the fire were working now to finish extinguishing it. A pile of crates, barrels and broken cargo cluttered the dock and two men, soldiers by the look of their leathers and weapons, cautiously picked their way clear of the wreckage, stepping over several bodies apparently crushed beneath the debris. Another soldier stood guard over a man prone on the ground, his stance implying he was ready to take on single-handedly the half dozen mounted men who had just clattered onto the pier. He wasn't wearing a pauldron, but to Demont the stance and the attitude spoke volumes – he had to be a musketeer.

Demont signaled his men to pull up a short distance from the defending soldier. They dismounted, and Demont handed his reins to his Lieutenant, walking cautiously and open-handed toward the young man in brown leather. Intense brown eyes met his gaze, then he watched the young man's eyes flick over him, obviously assessing his potential as a threat and hopefully noticing now his uniform, the red sash with gold _fleur de lis_ slung over his heart, marking him as an ally and soldier to the King. The young man cast a quick glance to his companions, assuring they were also under no threat, and then his stance relaxed and he lowered his weapons, but Demont noted with a small smile, he did not put them away. Yes, this had to be a young musketeer.

"Captain Demont of the King's Port Guard," Demont addressed the young man with a slight incline of his head and a softer voice than one might have expected given the circumstance, "Are you one of Lieutenant Athos's men? He sent to me for aid." The young man gave a soft exhale and visibly relaxed, giving a slight bow of courtesy to a superior officer and then immediately sheathing his weapons.

"I am D'Artagnan," he said simply. Demont raised a brow, surprised at the soldier's lack of title or unit, but perhaps it was concern for his wounded comrades now approaching that overtook his sense of propriety. The young man's face gave way to worry as he looked toward them, even as he made to kneel by the man lying crumpled at his feet.

"Lieutenant Athos?" Demont queried of the two men.

"I am Athos, of the King's Musketeers" the man in black leathers answered as they approached, his musketeer pauldron the only one among the foursome. It was clear from the cuts and bruises that both men had recently been in a skirmish, although judging by the pained lines on the face of Athos's companion and the way that the lieutenant gripped the other musketeer's arm, his friend was the worse for the wear.

"Captain Demont, at your service," Demont offered with a nod of his head, "My men and I received your message and the request for aid from Captain Treville. Although from the look of things, it seems you and your musketeers have acquitted yourself well enough without us." As Demont offered his greeting, he watched the musketeer lieutenant's steel blue eyes take in the scene before him. The lieutenant's eyes flicked over toward the wounded man lying on the ground and Demont caught the slight softening in his glance as he gave a nod to the musketeer by his side and released his arm. With no further prompting, the other man moved with surprising grace to kneel beside young D'Artagnan, laying a gentle hand on the prone man's brow and saying something too low and quiet for Demont to hear. Athos did not let his gaze linger on his men but returned his attention to Demont, eyes as sharp, clear and dangerous as before.

"Thank you for your swift response," Athos said with a deferential dip of his head, although something in the lieutenant's tone implied it was not nearly swift enough, "We were able to retrieve our missing man, but unfortunately the ship we sought was able to make sail, after taking on board one of the criminals responsible for his kidnapping." Demont shifted his stance to face the end of the pier, the vessel in question quickly fading into the distance.

"I think that's the _Saint Domnin_?" Demont said, thinking he had identified the vessel by its sail but knowing it was at the edge of his vision, "Do you know where she's bound?"

" _Saint-Pierre_ ," Athos responded curtly. He seemed distracted. By all indication, Athos was engaged with their conversation but Demont could not help but notice the furtive glances toward the man on the ground. He realized then that the poor wretch must be the abducted musketeer that they had retrieved. If it was one of his men to have been so brutalized, Demont did not know If he could show the same restraint the musketeer lieutenant was managing to present. Demont had empathy for the lieutenant's situation.

"Once you've given me the details, I can send dispatch with the next galleon bound to _Saint-Pierre._ The island will not serve to be a safe-haven for those perpetrating an attack against soldiers in service to the King," Demont promised.

"I appreciate your assistance," Athos replied taughtly, as if afraid to say what was further on his mind, but nodded his head in agreement nonetheless. The lieutenant's ice blue eyes met his and Demont felt deep power in the gratitude he saw there. He also knew that the musketeer would hold him to his word.

"Athos," a pleading voice cut into their conversation, "you need to see this," the words were heavy, filled with anger. The lieutenant gave a slight nod to Demont and then walked away from a superior officer without another word. Demont was not offended but knew it said something of the mettle of this man that he would stand so little on ceremony.

They had rolled the injured man onto his side and he had curled around himself in a protective huddle. The youngest musketeer gently held the large man's head in his hands while the other soldier had his hands on the injured man's shoulder and side, most likely assessing the injuries. Athos lowered himself beside the tousle-haired musketeer, his eyes widening with both anger and sorrow as he looked upon his comrade. His exhale was almost a small cry and he looked with worried eyes to his companion even as he carefully laid a hand on the prone man's hip in what Demont recognized as a gesture of comfort.

"Can you help him?" Athos asked softly.

The curly-haired musketeer pressed his lips together, the struggle to speak without letting his emotions take over clear in his face. He bit his bottom lip, and then finally answered.

"I'm not even sure where to begin," his voice broke on the statement and so did the heart of every soldier in hearing distance. They had known enough battles to recognize the voice of despair as one faced the mortal wounds of a comrade, a brother. Demont exchanged a look of curiosity with his men, certainly the man had been beaten but could the wounds truly be so grave to warrant such sorrow? He moved to where Athos crouched beside the other two man, standing just behind him.

" _Mon Dieu,"_ Demont gasped as he took in the brutal signs of abuse decorating the man's back. Whip marks, bruises, and abrasions painted every inch of his exposed skin, but the sutures . . . the arching lines and patterns. This was something Demont had seen before. He felt his anger rising and knew his men would feel the same in a moment when he started issuing orders. Demont gestured toward the laborers gathered near the fallen crates, "Bertrand, get those men over there organized, clear the debris, search the dead. Armand, take two men and search the docks. Jean, you take the warehouse."

"Sir," Armand asked, "What are we looking for?"

"The Butcher is back at work," Demont said, his voice as sharp as a rapier cut. His men murmured amongst themselves, eyes widening in horror and anger, just as his had done. "We'll find that bastard this time. Go."

"Wait, no," the other musketeer painfully pushed himself to his feet, "You will not find them. They are on that ship that sailed."

"Them?" Demont asked as his men paused in their tracks.

"The Comte de Varade and his sister," the soldier answered, voice full of barely suppressed rage, "They are the ones that abducted Porthos. They are the ones who tortured him. I shot the Comte as he boarded the boat, but his sister," the man gave a small shudder, "She lives. Now stop wasting time with clever nicknames and a fruitless search for the soulless animals that did this and help me get this man to a physician!" The soldier's dark eyes flashed in anger and he looked capable of murder himself as he glared at Demont. Demont noticed his men bristling at the threat but before anyone could do anything rash, Athos rose to his feet.

"Aramis," the lieutenant said softly, standing beside his man, cocking his head to catch the soldier's eye and putting one hand to his friend's arm and the other to the man's chest, over his heart. It might have been a gesture of restraint or one of empathy, but that was all it took, that simple word, the gentle gesture and the musketeer, Aramis, let the rage drop from his body. His eyes softened at once, the anger replaced by sorrow and Demont found it hard to meet the rawness in the gaze.

"My apologies, Captain," Aramis said, voice rough with emotion, "It has been a difficult six days," he offered by way of apology.

"Six days," Demont repeated, not wanting to consider what these men must have gone through in order to retrieve their missing comrade. The marks on their friend showed what six days of torture could do to the body, but the marks on the soul? Demont's heart went out to these men.

"No apology needed," Demont replied, straightening up and resorting to the mask of calm that all good commanders cultivated. If Athos could keep his composure in this situation, then Demont could manage the same.

"Henri, take Phillipe and get a litter together to carry this man," the two men acknowledged their Captain and made their way back toward the warehouse, "Lieutenant," Demont continued, "I'd like to offer you and your men the hospitality of our garrison and the use of our infirmary. We would be honored to come to the aid of the King's musketeers."

Athos exchanged an unreadable look with Aramis and some accord must have been reached as Athos extended his hand to the Demont, "Thank you," he said, "We gratefully accept your offer."

"We have had some experience with this," Demont said, "Your man Porthos is not the first to suffer wounds like this. We have found several bodies in the harbor that have borne these marks, but also some victims we found alive."

"You will find more victims at _La Chatte Secrete_ , the brothel that Celeste de Varade ran," Aramis said bitterly from where he was once again kneeling beside Porthos. One of Demont's men had offered up a cloak and Aramis was settling it around Porthos's shoulders while D'Artagnan steadied him. Porthos was conscious, but disoriented, looking with unfocused eyes and barely aware of his comrades.

"We will visit there then, in force," Demont assured the musketeer. Demont's men came back with their makeshift stretcher, a sturdy piece of sailcloth expertly knotted over two heavy oars. Gently, the musketeers laid their comrade on the canvas, but it was Demont's men who stepped in to lift the big man. Aramis and D'Artagnan seemed almost unwilling to let Porthos be entrusted to another's hands, but Athos was there again, a hand on their shoulders.

"They honor him," Demont heard him say quietly, "And you Aramis, have no business carrying anybody."

Aramis gave Athos a glare but Athos did not relent, instead taking his comrade by the arm as he had when Demont first saw them walking from the debris. D'Artagnan flanked Aramis on the other side, clearly ready to step in if needed. Demont watched them follow the litter, the bond of these men echoing the bonds he had with his own. It would be an honor indeed to come to the aid of the musketeers.

* * *

To the musketeer's relief, the walk to the port garrison was not all that far as it was situated on the water at the southern edge of the harbor. It was much larger than the musketeer garrison in Paris as it could house both infantry and naval officers when ships of the _Le Havre_ fleet were at anchor. Despite the size, the musketeers immediately felt an ease as they entered the large central courtyard as the routines of garrison life were much the same. Men gathering for morning mess before the daily muster, some practicing at swords, others managing supplies or tending the horses.

Some of the men in the garrison paused to watch the somber group make its way through the gates and over to the long, low building at the water's edge that served as their infirmary. A stable boy ran up to take the horses, more than half riderless as the musketeers had refused to ride but instead chose to walk near the litter bearing their friend.

In the end, Aramis was grateful for Athos's hand on his arm and eventually, D'Artagnan's grip too on the other side. As adrenaline from the morning's events wore off, the pain from his various injuries rose through him in waves as each step initiated a piercing stab in his ribs, a ripple of fire across his back and a corresponding throbbing in his aching head. All in all, though, he knew nothing was life threatening and nothing had happened could not wait a few more hours for care. It would catch up to him, he knew, but for now, his mind was entirely on Porthos and he knew that Athos and D'Artagnan were focused on the same. Their own hurts were small but other than their supportive hold on him none of them showed signs of succumbing to pain or weariness. Aramis knew they were all made of tougher stuff than this.

The infirmary was surprisingly light and airy, with large windows open to sunlight and the sea breeze. A fire was banked in the oversized hearth and one of Demont's men went to immediately stoke it, knowing hot water would be needed for both injuries and medicines. The men who had carried Porthos through the streets gently laid the big musketeer on one of the low cots then with practiced hands shifted him to one side, then the other, as they slipped the stretcher from beneath him. Aramis caught their grim faces as they filed from the room, taking their silence as the stoic support of soldiers that bore empathy for their situation. Watching others care for a fallen comrade was sure to stir their own memories of having done the same. Soldiering was a dangerous life.

Aramis took up a low stool from near the hearth and placed in next to Porthos's bedside, sitting heavily but grateful to be off his feet. His head hurt, but without the motion of walking, it was manageable. He would need some relief soon though, or he knew the blinding headache that was coming would overwhelm him. Porthos had curled to his side again, but Aramis gently moved him to his back. While the damage there was horrific, those wounds were older and all that needed it were sutured. He would have time later to look at that. Right now, Aramis was concerned for the fresh slices from the lash and the angry burn from the brand.

"My medical bag?" Aramis asked without looking up, knowing instinctively that Athos would be near. Porthos had slipped back to unconsciousness and Aramis raised his eyelids, noting that the pupils were enlarged and unchanging. A sign of a possible head injury or perhaps some concoction in Porthos's system.

"With my horse," Athos answered, placing a basin of tepid water on the small table by the bed. Aramis did not miss the tightness in his voice, knowing all too well what it was costing him to look down on Porthos, so battered and still.

"I'll need it," Aramis said evenly, but even so uncertainty crept into his heart. There was just too much and he felt the same overwhelming sense of despair threatening to envelop him as it had on the docks. The worry must have been in his voice too, as D'Artagnan kneeled at the other side of the bed, giving him a reassuring look as he passed Aramis a handful of clean cloths he had secured from somewhere in the room.

"We need to clean up the blood, see what needs attention," D'Artagnan said with his easy manner, that youthful faith in happy endings and the prowess of his companions obliterating any doubts in the young man's mind. Aramis gave him a nod, as grateful for D'Artagnan's buoyant presence as he was for Athos's steadying one. He might have become their designated medic because of his steady hands and natural affinity for helping people, but in caring for each other he often had to remember it was not his burden alone to bear. He took up a cloth, damping it in the water and bringing it carefully to Porthos's chest.

Demont cleared his throat, forgotten for a moment as they had gotten to work. "I'll have the stable boys bring up your saddle bags," he said calmly, stepping closer to the trio gathered around the bed, "and our surgeon can be here shortly. However," he cleared his throat again, seeming unsure of how to proceed. Aramis was grateful to Athos as he straightened and moved to intercept Demont at the end of the bed. Aramis was not sure he was going to like the rest of the man's statement.

"However," Demont continued, addressing Athos directly, "our experience in the past suggests the surgeon might not be the best course of action."

"Why?" Athos asked flatly.

"We have treated three other victims of The Butcher ...," Demont stopped himself, "I should say of the Varades here. They are adverse to suturing and have fought desperately against the needle. The first died of infection as even after we finally forced her to allow us to stitch her wounds, she pulled them out in the night. After that, the surgeon had us tie them to the bed," Demont trailed off, unwilling to recount the rest of that story.

"Athos," Aramis felt the word escape him, knew it was loaded with warning that his friend would understand. Athos spared him a look and a hand to his shoulder and Aramis immediately felt reassured. No one was tying Porthos to the bed or suturing him against his will. Aramis felt something release in his heart as he turned back to Porthos, gently washing away blood and dirt from his chest and arms.

"What do you suggest?" Athos prompted Demont. Aramis too suspected that the captain would not have brought up the surgeon's shortcomings unless there was an alternative to propose.

"I'd like to send for Master Farhad," Demont replied, "a practitioner of Persian medicine whose services have often helped the men of my garrison," Demont paused as if to see if his solution would be met with immediate protest. "Being a port, we have many practitioners of the healing arts from many other nations resident within our city. I give you my word that Master Farhad is the finest of his profession, even if his methods are not wholly of our traditions."

Aramis had paused in his ministrations to look up at the captain, noting the earnestness in his eyes and the honesty in his voice. He truly believed this was the best course of action and Aramis had never been closed minded about where healing or where knowledge might come from. He could not have built the relationships he had with any of the men in the room were he not ready to accept differences with respect. Athos caught his eye, raising a questioning brow. Aramis knew it was his decision and that Athos would not allow anyone in this room that Aramis did not approve.

"Thank you, Captain," Aramis said with a nod of his head, "We are happy to have the services of your Master Farhad at our disposal." He meant it with gratitude, but also hoped his statement implied that they would not hesitate to dismiss him should the musketeers not be convinced of his value. The captain gave him an affirmative nod.

"He is a gentle man," he offered, "and we have all been the better for his aid in the past. I'll send for him, and send up some food," Demont turned to leave, then paused, turning to them again, "You will find medical supplies in the cabinet between the windows, and clean linens in the cupboard by the chamber pot. I'll post a guard at the door, for your privacy and if you need to send for anything. You are most welcome here, gentle sirs."

The captain offered a small bow and then left them alone to tend their wounds. Aramis noted the extra kindness and the deference he gave them despite their lower rank. Captain Demont was an unusual man.

As soon as the door clicked closed, Athos rejoined them, pulling up another stool beside Aramis and sitting near Porthos's hip. Aramis watched their commander, his friend, run his eyes carefully over Porthos's body, taking in each slash and stripe, the raw skin round his neck and the ugly brand seared into his chest. Athos's gaze was unflinching, assessing every mark as if he was burning it to his memory. Aramis and D'Artagnan had cleaned away the blood and now D'Artagnan moved to collect the bloody cloths and basins of water while Aramis took up another clean cloth, dabbing at the slashes that were still sluggishly weeping blood. Through it all Porthos remained unaware, not moving or reacting to what was happening to his body, although Aramis and D'Artagnan had been cautious when tending to him.

"Does he know we are here?" Athos finally asked. Aramis spared his friend a glance, noting the tightness in Athos's jaw and the fury in his eyes. Athos was the picture of control, but Aramis knew deep emotions roiled beneath his calm exterior.

"I think so," Aramis said, voice weary and sad, "At least he was aware that D'Artagnan and I were with him when we got him out of the building. I think he was alert enough to know we were all there with him at the dock," Aramis stayed his hand for a moment, sitting back on the stool and considering, "Now though, he seems as if asleep, although I do not think it a natural one. His eyes are too wide beneath his lids." Aramis gave a small sigh, then turned his gaze to Athos, "I think he has been drugged, something to keep him docile and subdued while they did . . . this" he said, waving a hand toward his insensate friend.

"What did they use?" Athos asked.

"I don't know," Aramis knew his voice held a note of frustration, "I can make some guesses, but unless the healer has some idea or Porthos himself can tell us, I cannot be sure."

"It had to be powerful," Athos mused, "All of those stitches on his back . . ." Athos trailed off, unwilling to speak further. Aramis knew what he was implying though. Porthos could not tolerate suturing so to have endured what they had seen patterned across his back they must have kept him incapacitated over a long period of time. A medicine, herb or even a poison would be the only way to do that other than knocking him out, and Aramis had found nothing to indicate Porthos had received multiple blows to the head.

"What's this?" Athos asked, gently raising Porthos's hand and examining the abrasions around his wrists.

"He was shackled," Aramis said, barely controlling his anger, "and collared," he managed to get out. He felt Athos stiffen beside him, the implications of what he had just said falling heavily between them. Aramis though knew he could not just let it rest there. Athos needed to know, deserved to know, what had happened, "He was chained to a wall in a horse stall when I found him," Aramis explained, taking Porthos's hand from Athos and laying it gently on the bed. D'Artagnan reappeared at his side with a basin of fresh water and more cloths.

"Here is your kit," he said, handing Aramis the small black satchel he never traveled without, "I met the stable boy as I was changing the water. The rest of the saddle bags are by the door." Aramis gave D'Artagnan a thin but grateful smile. The young Gascon just had a way of smoothing things over and making things easier sometimes.

D'Artagnan made his way to the other side of the cot again, and carefully held up Porthos's other arm, the shackle still surrounding his wrist, "We need to get this off," he said through tight lips. Aramis felt a wave of nausea roll in his stomach at the sight of that cruel iron cuff still locked tightly in place. Athos shifted uncomfortably on the stool.

"We'll need a blacksmith," Athos said tersely, "I want that off of him before he wakes up." The lieutenant swallowed and clenched his jaw, taking in a sharp inhale before he had managed enough control to speak again, "What else?" he asked, and Aramis knew he wanted to know about Porthos's other injuries. D'Artagnan too leaned forward, as this was the part of the story he did not know. Aramis noticed how the Gascon kept Porthos's hand lightly wrapped between his own.

"He had been whipped recently when I found him," Aramis stated, his voice thick with emotion, "and the brand," he took a moment to steady himself, "that is fresh too," he said, trying to release from his mind the image of Celeste's fingers tracing the wound, her delight at seeing his brother tormented, marked, a sign of ownership placed on his body. Aramis squeezed his eyes shut and moaned slightly, feeling his stomach turn as he remembered the scene in the barn. He fought for control, but it was beyond him, he was about to retch.

Athos must have seen something in his face as suddenly there was a basin Aramis's lap and a hand on the back of his neck. Aramis emptied the meager contents of his stomach into the bowl, bitter bile burning his throat and stinging his mouth. His stomach continued to contract even after it was empty, and then the bowl was taken from him and someone had a grip on his wrist as he tried to steady his breathing.

"I'm sorry," Aramis finally breathed, unwilling to look up into what he knew would be the concerned faces of his brothers. Someone, D'Artagnan he realized put a cup in his hand. He raised it to his lips, cool water rinsing the vile taste of sickness from his mouth. "I don't know what came over me," he added contritely, putting the cup on the bedside table.

"Could it have something to do with the blow to the head you received?" Athos said quietly. Aramis did turn his head at that, raising a questioning brow to Athos. How could he possibly know?

Athos gave a small snort, "The blood matted in your hair is a good indication of how your rescue went," Athos gave him a knowing look as if daring Aramis to challenge the truth. Aramis felt a slight smile tug his lips and gave a small shrug of apology.

"What other injuries are you hiding?" Athos asked him, steel blue eyes locking onto him and demanding nothing less than the truth. Aramis sighed and raked a hand through his hair. He did not want to lie, and truth be told he was starting to feel the strain of his own wounds pull at him, but he would not be forced from Porthos's side. He needed to be here. He knew they all did.

"There are several," Aramis finally offered, clasping Athos's hand in his and placing it over his own heart, "And I promise you I will let you care for them all, but please, first we must see to Porthos. Please." Aramis knew that his voice, his eyes, were almost begging Athos to let him be. Athos pursed his lips and Aramis could see he was torn. It was unfair of him to ask of Athos that he ignore the hurts of one of his brothers so that they could tend to the other, but Aramis would find no respite from his own wounds as long as Porthos was also suffering. Athos knew this, he just had to let his heart make the choice, not his head. Athos held his gaze a long moment, but Aramis did not see anger there, only love and sorrow and the hard decision to allow someone to suffer when he had the means to prevent it.

"Very well," Athos said, tightening his grip in Aramis's clasped hands, "But you must let us provide you some relief as well." Aramis nodded, yes, and he was grateful of their promised aid and comfort. Aramis's acknowledgment was all Athos needed, he released his hand from Aramis's and took up the medical kit. "What do we need?"

Aramis snapped back to himself immediately, burying his doubts and pains behind his training and experience. He knew that they would need the skills of the healer, but there was much they could do until he arrived.

"Inside the kit is a salve for the abrasions on his wrists and neck. It's in a small stone jar," Aramis said, confidence and efficiency coloring his voice. Athos immediately started to look through the bag. "D'Artagnan can you look in the cupboard for lavender oil and chamomile. We can make a cold poultice for the burn." D'Artagnan moved quickly to the cupboard, scanning the shelves for the ingredients, "And strong spirits if there are any," Aramis added, "We will need to clean these wounds in his chest even if we don't suture them."

Athos produced the salve and handed it to Aramis. He removed the lid from the stone pot and took a small amount on his finger tips and gently applied it to Porthos's wrist. He glanced at his friend's face, but still there was no reaction. Aramis was worried. Had he retreated again into his mind or was this the effects of whatever drug was in his system? He hoped the healer would get here soon.


	20. Chapter 20

_A/N: My thanks and appreciation to everyone who continues to read, review, favorite and follow this story. It's been a long journey for me as a writer and I am so grateful to everyone for the support and encouragement. Of course, this fic would not exist without Issai who makes all things make sense. The non-sensical parts are all mine._

* * *

D'Artagnan had indeed found lavender oil and chamomile and as he crushed the leaves into the oil with a mortar and pestle from the cupboard, he watched Athos and Aramis as they bent over Porthos, tending to all but the worst of the injuries. Athos had taken D'Artagnan's place on the opposite side of the bed from Aramis and was gently maneuvering Porthos's head so that Aramis could apply the salve to the ugly abrasions around his neck. Porthos had remained unmoving throughout the process, senseless from whatever had been done to him by his captors. Aramis and Athos were unusually quiet, no war stories of some other wound Aramis had tended or dry quips from Athos that would provoke a playful rebuke. D'Artagnan found it unnerving. Even when they had treated Porthos for the near-fatal axe wound to the back, Aramis had been animated and optimistic, Athos wry but engaged. D'Artagnan had been on the periphery then, his job to keep an eye on Bonnaire, but he had learned much about his comrades as they dealt with Porthos's injuries.

Their silence now spoke to their deep worry. The anxiety and turmoil of the last six days had not been banished by a daring rescue and a happy reunion. There was something broken about Porthos. His body was so battered that D'Artagnan had trouble believing this was the same man who a little over a week ago had been tossing him around the garrison courtyard as they sparred in the afternoon sun.

As D'Artagnan crushed the herbs into a paste, he struggled to understand the empty sorrow that seemed to consume his friends. Yes, the wounds were severe and many, and some gruesome to contemplate what Porthos must have endured to receive them, but nothing was life threatening. At least D'Artagnan didn't think so. After they had cleaned the blood from Porthos's chest and arms, they realized that only some of the lashes had cut skin. Others were just raised welts of angry flesh that in time would heal fully, without even a scar. The abrasions from the shackles also would fade in time and the sutures in his back were healing with no signs of infection. The brand – that was troubling and D'Artagnan didn't want to dwell too much on that, but Porthos had survived it, would survive all of this. Whatever was troubling Athos and Aramis was something D'Artagnan could not see.

"Is that ready?" Aramis asked softly from the bedside as if the sound of his voice could shift some delicate balance they had achieved in the quiet room.

"Yes," D'Artagnan let his answer remain subdued, following the other's lead even if he didn't understand it, "Here."

He brought the mixture over and kneeled beside Aramis. D'Artagnan scooped some out of the bowl of the mortar with his fingers and liberally but gently applied it directly to the burned flesh from the brand. He covered the entire area, then took the cold, wet cloth that Aramis offered and layered it on top of the concoction. He did that two more times, then lightly pressed the cloths so that they molded around Porthos's breast like a piece of linen armor. Finished, he took up a final cloth to wipe his hands, noticing that Aramis was staring at him with surprise in his eyes.

"What?" he asked cautiously, unsure if he had done something wrong.

"How did you learn to do that?" Aramis asked quietly.

"Not the first poultice I've made," D'Artagnan shrugged, "I've put plenty enough on horses, and my father's leg once when he brushed up on some nettles. And one of the dogs got on the wrong side of a bear once ...," D'Artagnan trailed off as he noticed Aramis smiling at him, "What?" he asked again, a smile on his face now too.

"D'Artagnan," Aramis said, taking the soiled cloth from his hands and adding it to the pile building up on the floor at his feet, "You are a marvel sometimes. And a comfort."

D'Artagnan wasn't sure how to take that, or even what Aramis meant, but he gave a little shrug that hopefully showed agreement. He would make as many poultices as it took if it lifted Aramis's spirits.

"The lashes?" Athos said, his serious tone breaking the lightened mood. D'Artagnan watched Aramis shift uncomfortably on the stool, running a hand through his hair and giving an audible exhale.

"He needs to be alert," Aramis said with a sigh. D'Artagnan was surprised at that, and across from him Athos too raised a questioning brow. It was a blessing if someone was insensible while their wounds were cleaned and stitched, but with Porthos, it was generally a necessity. Aramis looked up to meet their questions, speaking slowly as if it pained him somehow to do so.

"The sutures on his back," Aramis explained, "that's the work of Celeste de Varade. Some of it already healing, some is only a day old," Aramis paused, pursing his lips to fight back some emotion before continuing, "She's been stitching for days," D'Artagnan clearly heard the anger in buried in Aramis's even tone even as the marksman's words made his stomach turn. There had not been a moment for D'Artagnan to truly consider the implications of what he had seen etched across Porthos's back when he had found them in the barn. He felt a wave of horror slip over him. That a person, a woman, could inflict such cruelty on anyone chilled him to the core.

"If he wakes while we are tending him ...," Aramis trailed off and just gestured helplessly at Porthos's prone figure.

"He will think he is being tortured again," Athos finished the thought, his statement neutral but his eyes dark.

A soft rap at the door interrupted their conversation and D'Artagnan's black thoughts. He was grateful for something to distract him from what he was discovering was a darker world than he had ever imagined in Gascony. He moved to the door and opened the latch, happy for a little bit of activity to disguise his discomfort.

Captain Demont gave D'Artagnan a small nod as he stepped into the infirmary followed by two men, one a soldier bearing a tray of food and wine, the other clearly the blacksmith judging by his leather apron and the small collection of tools in his hand. The soldier put the refreshments on the table and busied himself laying everything out, stoking the fire and removing the soiled, bloody cloths that had piled up on the floor. Captain Demont made his way to the foot of the bed, taking in the men before him before addressing Athos.

"D'Artagnan said you were in need of a blacksmith to remove a cuff," he said, gesturing to the man with him, "Crespine can assist you. He is the finest blacksmith in _Le Havre_ and the garrison is all the better for his careful work. Please?" Captain Demont waited as D'Artagnan watched Athos give the man a once over, clearly wary about who he would choose to let near Porthos. Whatever it was that Athos was looking for, he must have found it as he gave the man an approving nod.

"Can you assist with this?" Athos said, taking up Porthos's hand and forearm, raising it slightly so the man could see the iron band circling his wrist. A shadow passed over Crespine face and D'Artagnan thought the blacksmith looked about as appalled as they were to see a free and innocent man in a manacle.

Crespine approached Athos, standing beside him where he still held Porthos's arm. He cleared his throat and gave an uncomfortable cough, "May I?" he asked Athos, his voice as deep and strong as the iron he worked with. He squatted beside Athos and took Porthos's arm in his hands, maneuvering it gently so he could look at the joint and lock of the shackle.

"Will be simple, no fuss," Crespine pronounced, "Just need to keep it steady." Athos immediately shifted off his stool to offer up the top to the blacksmith. He gave a nod and put Porthos's wrist on the top, angling it so that the lock faced up.

"Hold his arm here," Crespine said to Athos. Athos took hold of Porthos again, pressing his palm to the stool and immobilizing the forearm at the elbow joint. Crespine gave Athos a serious look, "Don't let him move, or I could take a finger by mistake." Athos dipped his head at the grim warning and D'Artagnan saw him tighten his grip on Porthos as the blacksmith put the thin end of a metal spike onto the face of the lock.

D'Artagnan felt his stomach clench as Crespine raised up a small mallet. Aramis reacted as well, taking hold of Porthos's other hand as if the blacksmith was about to strike the spike into Porthos's flesh, not the iron band around his wrist. There were two fast, staccato ringing blows and then a crack – and it was done. The shackle lay open on the stool, Porthos's wrist finally free of the cruel object.

All of the musketeers seemed to breathe a sigh of relief once the band came free and Crespine gave Athos a reassuring smile, "See, no fuss" he nodded. The blacksmith carefully removed the shackle from the stool and stood, giving Athos a final look, "You take care of him, now," he said gruffly, "No man should be forced to wear iron." As Crespine passed by D'Artagnan on his way out of the room, D'Artagnan gave him a small nod of gratitude. The blacksmith was worth his weight in gold as far as D'Artagnan was concerned.

D'Artagnan took up the salve that Aramis had used on the other abrasions and brought it to Athos. Athos applied a liberal dose while D'Artagnan held up Porthos's wrist and Aramis and Demont watched. There seemed to be so much and so little to say at the same time. Anger at what Porthos had gone through and worry at what yet had to be done to help him to recover made a palpable tension in the otherwise light and breezy infirmary.

"How does he fare?" asked a smooth, musical voice from the other side of the room. All heads turned toward the doorway to gaze upon a gentleman in a brocade frock coat and a bright red skull cap, a large leather satchel slung over his shoulder and a small wooden crate in his hands. It was easy to assume this was the healer.

"Master Farhad," Demont's smile was genuine and reassuring, "I present Athos, Aramis and D'Artagnan of the King's Musketeers." The musketeers offered greetings as the man entered the room, moving to join their group around the bed. He placed the small crate on the bedstand beside Aramis, and slung off the satchel, placing it on the floor.

D'Artagnan observed his movements with a small smirk of his lips. The man had an innate grace and natural good looks that reminded him much of Aramis. They were of much the same height and build, and even Farhad's frock coat was much like Aramis's long, leather doublet. A red sash was wrapped round his waist, but his shirt beneath the coat was long to the knees and odd to see it not tucked neatly into his breeches.

"It is my honor to be of service," Farhad said with a small bow, his hand to his heart in a gesture so reminiscent of Aramis that D'Artagnan couldn't help but smile. Farhad caught his eye and flashed D'Artagnan a smile that rivaled the marksman's. If the man had a beard and Aramis a tan, they could nearly be brothers D'Artagnan thought. He wondered if Athos saw this too, but a glance at the lieutenant showed nothing but his typically impervious, stoic stare. Athos had locked his thoughts and feelings firmly behind a practiced mask and he was not likely to let them out again until there was a copious amount of wine.

"May I?" Farhad asked, gesturing to the empty stool beside Aramis. The marksman nodded, and Farhad sat beside him, reaching to take Porthos's hand and place his fingers on his wrist. "He is strong, your friend," Farhad commented as he placed Porthos's hand back on the bed, "His heart is mighty."

"Yes, that it is," Aramis replied with a soft smile.

The musketeers stayed gathered around the bed as Farhad continued his examination. He asked questions of what they had already done and asked about Porthos's condition when Aramis had found him. D'Artagnan thought he heard some reluctance in Aramis's voice as he told the story that neither he nor Athos had heard yet. Aramis seemed to smooth over some parts, not mentioning the state that he was in when D'Artagnan found him or telling of what had happened to land him in the position of being strung up and whipped. It was not unusual for Aramis to focus on his comrades and their needs in a moment like this, but D'Artagnan felt the missing details were not typical even for Aramis. He wondered again what had befallen his friend in the time they had been separated, but knew it would not be his place to ask. Of course, when Athos did find out, and found out what D'Artagnan already knew, there was bound to be hell to pay. D'Artagnan wondered what it was about Aramis that seemed to get him somehow pushed into a keeping a secret even from the others.

"You have done well by Porthos," Farhad was saying, pulling D'Artagnan from his thoughts, "and you were right not to touch the wounds while he is still in the cloud of an unholy dream." D'Artagnan wondered at the man's odd phrases and realized too he had an unusual inflection although he spoke perfect French. He was certainly foreign born, but yet somehow blended too into their world. "Let us pull him back to us, yes? And then we will see what to do about the sutures."

"What do you propose?" Aramis asked. Athos shifted uncomfortably on his seat and D'Artagnan moved slightly to stand behind Aramis's back. This was usually where things went wrong with physicians and Aramis. D'Artagnan hoped no one was about to mention leaches.

"Something that will cause no further harm to mind or body," Farhad said sincerely, " _Sels de pâmoison._ It has been effective in other cases like this." Aramis gave a slight cock of his head and D'Artagnan knew it meant he was impressed with the answer.

"Please if you may, my chest?" Farhad asked, indicating the small crate on the bed stand. Aramis took it up, holding it in his lap as the healer flipped open the lid. The chest held a multitude of green and brown glass vials, each nested in its own slot within the box. Paper labels were glued to the bottles, but the labels were unreadable, just odd swirling designs delicately inked on each one. Farhad though had no difficulty and traced his finger down a row to stop at a small bottle stoppered with cork.

"Here then," he said, taking up the vial as Aramis closed the chest and replaced it on the bed stand, "In my satchel, you will find some cotton wadding if you please sir?" D'Artagnan realized he was speaking to him so he picked up the large bag and unfastened the top of the case. There were three large sections to the bag, each compartment filled with other small bundles and cloths. "In the front pouch," Farhad said, "you will kindly find it." It seemed bandages and clothes were in the front and D'Artagnan found the cotton and handed it to the healer before returning the bag to the floor.

Farhad started to uncork the bottle then paused, cocking his head to look at Aramis thoughtfully. "Perhaps sir, you will do this?" he said, offering the bottle and cotton to Aramis, "I think you are not unfamiliar with the technique?"

Across from Aramis, D'Artagnan noticed Athos again raise his brow, this time curious about what was occurring.

"Yes, I can do it," Aramis said, taking the items from Farhad, "Although generally, physicians are not pleased when I take over," the light smile on Aramis's face seemed genuine to D'Artagnan and even Athos had a slight upturn to his lips.

"Given what I know of Porthos's ordeals, I think it best that when he wakes, it is with the visage of his three companions to lead him back from darkness," Farhad explained, his tone serious but warm. He placed a hand on Aramis's wrist, "Do this gently and with extreme kindness," he cautioned, "and do not yet mention that there are wounds to stitch. We must get him to accept that or it will not go well with him. I have treated victims of this butcher before," Farhad's eyes narrowed and his voice hardened, "and we must be cautious if we are to not cause further harm."

"I understand," Aramis said, sharing a look with Athos who nodded as well.

"Very good then," Farhad found his warm, charming smile again, "I will wait by the fire with Captain Demont. Your friend will return at your call, do not fear."

Farhad stepped away and the captain followed him, pulling up two chairs at the other side of the large hearth and taking up a bottle of wine from the table. It dawned then on D'Artagnan that none of them had slept or eaten and while they were all still functional now, he was not sure how long it would be so.

D'Artagnan took up the stool Farhad had just vacated, wiping sweaty palms down the front of his pants. He was not sure what would happen, not sure how to manage whatever grievous hurts Porthos would have, but he was not going to leave the side of his comrades for anything. This was just another battle and he would not back away from it.

Aramis pulled a small piece of cotton and twisted it slightly before uncorking the bottle. D'Artagnan caught the acrid whiff of ammonia before Aramis deftly stuffed the wadding into the bottle, sealing it completely. Then he tipped the bottle slightly in order to dampen the cotton. Aramis placed one hand on Porthos's forehead and the then put the bottle under his nose. While D'Artagnan could no longer smell the ammonia, he knew that to Porthos, the scent would be overpowering.

It took only a few moments for the smell to register as Porthos's face tightened and he tried to avoid the offending odor. Aramis's hand on his head kept Porthos from turning away from the potent smell and Athos took up his hand so that he would not thrash at the bottle. A short moment later the big man's eyes shot open and he took in a gasping breath.

"Easy there, easy. Just breathe" Aramis said soothingly, quickly putting the bottle back on the bed stand but leaving his other hand on Porthos's forehead, "You are with us _mon ami_. You are safe. Breathe, Porthos. Just breathe."

D'Artagnan did not understand all that he saw in Porthos's brown eyes, but they were locked fiercely on Aramis as if every word he said was a matter of life and death. The large man took in a deep, ragged breath and Aramis nodded encouraging another one. Porthos gave a slight nod to the marksman and then another breath, more steady this time.

"That's it, just breathe," Aramis said a grateful smile spreading across his face. He exhaled and the next breath he and Porthos took in time, a rhythm naturally established between them so strong that even D'Artagnan felt he was part of it. Porthos's next breath ended in a small groan and D'Artagnan knew from experience that it was pain from his injuries finally registering as he became more conscious and aware of his body.

Athos squeezed Porthos's hand at the sound, clasping it between both of his as he leaned his elbows on the edge of the narrow bed, "We've got you," Athos said, his voice strong and confident, as Porthos turned his gaze to him.

"Athos," Porthos breathed, "I heard you. I didn't . . . didn't die." Porthos's eyes were wide and earnest and D'Artagnan noticed Athos's confusion before a bemused look crossed his face.

"Of course you didn't," Athos's smile was fond, "Death was never an option for you, my friend." He pressed Porthos's hand to his lips in gratitude and spared a glance to Aramis. Both men visibly relaxing as Porthos spoke and recognized them, even if what he was saying made little sense.

Porthos shifted uncomfortably and D'Artagnan found the large man's eyes locked on him. Porthos looked at him as if D'Artagnan posed a complicated question that he couldn't figure out how to ask. D'Artagnan smiled at him, putting a reassuring hand on his leg. His heart felt full to have them all reunited, but troubled at what he was realizing would not be an easy recovery. He wasn't sure what Porthos wanted of him, but whatever it was that was asked of him, he knew he'd give it completely. He felt tears rising in his eyes as he gazed warmly down at his friend.

"You came?" Porthos asked of D'Artagnan, but then his eyes took in all three of his brothers, "You found me?" Aramis and Athos exchanged worried glances, not sure how to respond to the heartbreaking question. Did he not think they were here now? Did he still not know where he was? D'Artagnan swept up Porthos's other hand, bringing it to his heart.

"We came, Porthos. We never stopped looking. We found you," D'Artagnan said fervently, a feeling of fierce protectiveness replacing his uncertainty, "We will always come for you. We will always find you." Tears welled in D'Artagnan's eyes, but the smile on his face was born of joy in their reunion and confidence in the strength of their brotherhood, "We are going to help you. You will heal. And then we will take you home." D'Artagnan took in a shaky inhale, steadying himself from the conflicting emotions threatening to overwhelm him. Porthos nodded at him, his lips pressed tightly together and his chin wavering as he fought back his own tears, but D'Artagnan could see the musketeer believed him. He shared a bright smile with Athos and Aramis. All of them feeling that somewhere at the end of this journey, they would all be going home together.

* * *

They talked quietly for about half an hour, sharing with Porthos the details of their efforts to find him and explaining who the Varade's were and why they had taken him. Porthos listened to them and asked a few questions but mostly seemed content to be in their company. He had made it clear that he did not wish to speak of his ordeal, saying only that he had had no idea who had kidnapped them or why they were torturing him. He would not share the details of those six days, and no one pressed him for them.

At some point Master Farhad had joined them, bringing wine and cups and then a plate of cheese and fruit that the musketeers passed around as they talked. They were all hungry and the food and wine were welcome. Farhad slipped easily into their group, sometimes asking questions or making a comment about their ingenuity or prowess in battle. Porthos, as did all of them, grew more comfortable with his presence and at one point even let Master Farhad pour him a cup of wine, after being promised there was nothing else in the cup.

As they came to the end of their story, D'Artagnan noticed that again Aramis skirted over the details of the rescue and his abuse. Although this time Athos noticed something was awry and shot D'Artagnan a questioning look. D'Artagnan's silent response was a lift of his shoulders and a tip of his head as if to say 'we all know Aramis.' It seemed Athos got the message, as his critical eye swept over the marksman, looking for some clue as to what he was hiding. Aramis had admitted to being injured earlier, but now D'Artagnan was wondering just what the promise that had been exacted from Athos to let him tend Porthos was costing his friend.

"You are mighty warriors," Master Farhad said, interrupting D'Artagnan's thoughts, "Your enemies can not help but fall to such strength," he gave the all a respectful nod then turned his attention to Porthos. "You have returned to us, friend Porthos," Farhad said quietly, "but now we must test your great strength again. The injuries to your body must be made whole."

Porthos shifted on the cot as he clenched his jaw tightly, fighting to hold back the emotions clouding his face. He took a few deep breaths through his nose and finally fixed his eye on Farhad, violence gleaming there. "You will not stitch me like a rag. No," he declared, glaring at the healer, "I'd rather die of them festering then that," he said, fighting tears that welled in his eyes.

To his credit, Farhad did not even look phased. "No friend Porthos, no," he said calmly, "I shall not touch you if you will not allow it. But I think one of your comrades must for if you refuse, you must know that your death would be theirs."

The words were incredibly strong and unexpected, but D'Artagnan knew they were true. D'Artagnan thought the man must be nothing short of a mystic to have known that about them, but he had said the one thing that even Porthos could not refute. He had backed the musketeer into a corner and D'Artagnan watched as grief and anger played out across his friend's face. Was this all too much and was Porthos so truly broken that he could deny their bond?

"Porthos, please," Aramis said gently, "Let me do this for you as I have done so many times before. These wounds are no different no matter how they were inflicted." Porthos didn't answer but just swallowed, turning his head away from Aramis only to encounter Athos on his other side.

"This must be done," Athos said simply, "And you must trust us have you have always done. Nothing has changed."

"Everything has changed," Porthos said closing his eyes. D'Artagnan didn't know what to think or what more they could say to reach him, but then a moment later he opened his eyes again to meet Athos's gaze, "But not that. I trust you," he said to Athos, then shifted his head to look at Aramis, "I trust us," he continued and D'Artagnan was pleased to have Porthos flick his eyes up to meet his gaze as well.

"Wise as well as brave," Master Farhad said to Porthos but D'Artagnan had a feeling he was really speaking to all of them. "I will prepare something to dull the pain and an astringent to cleanse the wounds. Then we will have Master Aramis replace the marks on your body with the work of his hands." Farhad moved to pick up his crate of vials and Aramis stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"Thank you," the marksman said softly. Farhad nodded his head, then squinted his eyes, as if seeing something in Aramis's face.

"Young Master D'Artagnan," Farhad said as he moved around to put his crate of medicines on the table, "Would you be so kind as to put some water up to boil. We need to brew some willow bark tea for Master Aramis who I believe is suffering a headache."

D'Artagnan smiled and moved to the hearth. Finally, they would give some care to Aramis as well. He decided he liked Persian healers and wondered if Master Farhad could be persuaded to return with them to Paris. At the rate they got into trouble, they would keep him employed for a very long time.


	21. Chapter 21

_A/N: Thank you for your patience and my apologies for the delay in getting to this next chapter. I had minor surgery at the beginning of last week and the recovery from that has thrown off my writing schedule. I'm healing well and feeling nearly myself again, but now I understand why so many fic writers have their characters constantly falling asleep mid-sentence after getting musket balls removed or sword wounds sewn up! I am back in the swing of things and will be posting as usual going forward. Thank you for the reviews and comments - I was not able to respond to everyone on that last round but I can't tell you how much it means to me to know that you are enjoying the fic and look forward to more. Thank you of course to Issai for her insights as a beta-reader - she really makes the story so much better._

* * *

Aramis closed his eyes and raised a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. His head was in fact throbbing and while he hadn't wanted to complain, he was deeply grateful that Master Farhad had noticed his discomfort. The willow bark tea would take the edge off enough so that he could tend to Porthos, and then he promised himself he'd rest.

He dropped his hand and opened his eyes only to meet Athos's stern gaze from across the bed. The steel blue eyes were hard with accusation and Aramis knew that Athos's patience was wearing thin. Aramis was sure that Athos was aware that there was more to his poor condition than just a blow to the head, but he wasn't ready yet to discuss it or to allow himself to succumb to the pull of his own injuries. His experience as a soldier told him there were times to rest and times to fight, and Aramis knew the fight wasn't over yet – not for Porthos anyway.

Aramis gave a slight dip to his head to acknowledge Athos's worry, but his eyes asked his friend's indulgence. Athos let out a frustrated exhale but gave him a nod in return. Yes, he'd wait, but not for long was the message.

Master Farhad returned to the stool by Aramis's side, giving him a kind smile as he sat. The man was a wonder and at another time Aramis knew he'd be fascinated by Farhad's box of medicines, but right now he just was grateful for his calm presence and confident knowledge. Aramis was a field medic, not a trained physician, and while he knew he could attend the cuts and bruises, managing all of what had happened to Porthos was beyond his skill. Perhaps it was his that his judgment was clouded with weariness, pain and worry but Aramis found himself trusting the healer and was ready to allow him to do his work.

"I have prepared a mixture of salted water and lavender that we will use to clean the wounds," Farhad explained, "While it cools, we will see what we can do to ease friend Porthos's pains. I must know first, what herbs already influence his mind and body before I can choose a course of treatment. May I?" Farhad asked, gesturing with open hands toward the body dozing on the bed. Aramis gave a nod and slid back the stool, allowing more room for Farhad to lean in.

D'Artagnan appeared at his side, pressing a warm cup into his hands. The bitter, tangy smell wafting on the steam from the warm drink told Aramis it was the promised willow bark tea. He gave D'Artagnan a grateful smile then brought the cup to his lips, sipping slowly as he watched Farhad again measure Porthos's pulse at the wrists and neck, listen to his chest through a small brass horn shaped like an elephant, and look again into his eyes, nose and throat. Farhad's movements were slow and practiced and Porthos seemed to accept them, although his eyes occasionally glanced to Aramis or Athos, as if to reassure himself of their presence. It tore at Aramis's heart to realize that Porthos was still not completely certain that they were really there.

The sound of a chair scraping across the floor pulled Aramis's attention from the bedside. He had almost forgotten Captain Demont sitting quietly by the fireplace. Demont was on his feet now, returning to his place earlier at the foot of the bed

"Lieutenant Athos," he said, "Perhaps we could take this moment to prepare dispatches to Captain Treville? I'd like to send a courier to Paris before the noon bell rings," Aramis could hear the authority in the Captain's voice, but also an unusual softness for a man used to commanding a large garrison. He felt that if Athos were to protest, the Captain would let the dispatches wait. Aramis caught Athos's eye again, and saw the question that he did not voice. Aramis gave a small tilt of his chin and raised his eyes, yes he had this in hand. He could spare Athos and better now than later. Athos pushed himself up from the stool.

"Yes, Captain," Athos acquiesced politely, "I need to update our Captain on Porthos's condition and the situation with the Varades. I suspect the King will have issue with the abuse of one of his musketeers at the hands of a member of the court." Aramis couldn't help but suppress a wry smile. The King would have issue only in that it was a means to put the Varade's lands to forfeit to the crown. But action would be taken even if the motivation was not the justice that was deserved.

"I'd like a full report from you as well," Demont added, "and what you know of the Comte de Varade's business dealings. I will need to brief the governor this afternoon." Demont moved the door and paused, taking in the remaining men, "I'll have your Lieutenant returned to you within the hour," he assured them, "Corporal Durand is stationed outside should you have need of anything."

"Thank you, sir," D'Artagnan offered on their behalf as the Captain left the infirmary. Athos paused long enough to spare them all a glance – a quick acknowledgement that he would be back shortly and that they were alright without him – and left without another word to follow Demont. Aramis felt some small relief at Athos's departure. He didn't like lying to Athos and it was beginning to feel like he was doing that as he continued to avoid his friend's questioning looks. Aramis's attention was pulled back to Farhad as he had begun to question Porthos about his experiences.

"Do you know what it is that has so dulled your senses friend Porthos?" Farhad was asking, "Did your captors force you to eat or drink anything?"

"Was bitter," Porthos mumbled, half lidded eyes resting on Farhad, "The water was bitter." Farhad gave a knowing nod and exchanged a glance with Aramis.

"Laudanum," Aramis said quietly, "It would explain why he was subdued enough to allow the suturing on his back." Farhad nodded in agreement, then turned his gaze back to Porthos.

"How often did you drink of this bitter water?" he asked.

"Always," Porthos's answers were like sighs, "It was always bitter." Farhad nodded again and gave Porthos a reassuring pat as the big man's eyes drifted closed When he looked up at Aramis though, his eyes were hard, angry.

"That is six days with opium in his blood," Farhad said tightly, his voice hushed, "It is no wonder he remains confused. It is very dangerous. The dreams of the poppy weaken the mind as much as it dulls the senses of the body. We must be cautious now and lest we cause further damage before the cloud of opium lifts from his eyes."

"He will not tolerate sutures without something for the pain," Aramis answered, "Even before this, we could not manage it while he was conscious. But now . . ." Aramis trailed off, uncertain of what else could be done.

"There are other tinctures beside laudanum," Master Farhad said reassuringly, "We will use something else. Finish your tea, friend Aramis," Farhad said with a pat to his leg, "I would be glad of just one patient to worry about for the time being." Farhad retrieved his bag and returned to the small table, once again reviewing his potions and powders.

Aramis drained the last of the cup and pushed himself up from the stool, wincing as his doublet pulled against the wounds on his back. He exhaled and breathed through the pain, it was nothing he couldn't handle. He placed the cup on the mantle and D'Artagnan rose from his seat at the hearth to meet him

"Aramis, let me see to your back," he said quietly, his earnest brown eyes full of worry.

"It will be fine," Aramis gave the young recruit a genuine smile, "You worry too much." He gave D'Artagnan a pat on the arm and tried to move past him, but D'Artagnan blocked his way, putting his hand on Aramis's arm.

"Better now, while Athos is not here," D'Artagnan said softly, "You know he will not be pleased."

Aramis pursed his lips and looked down, feeling his anger rise at D'Artagnan's interference. He just bloody wanted to be left alone and it seemed no one was willing to listen. He raised his head to say something to the stubborn Gascon about minding his own business, but the words died on his lips. He saw only compassion in the gaze that met his and determination not to back down. He might be their newest member but he was not oblivious to the needs of his comrades or their moods. D'Artagnan did not deserve his anger when it was himself he was angry at for hiding his injuries from Athos.

"You're right, _mon ami_ ," Aramis said with a slight smile, "Let's have this done before Athos has my hide – and yours for not telling him about it." Aramis could see the relief in D'Artagnan's face, both for his own sake and the opportunity to avoid a tongue lashing from Athos about neglecting his duty.

D'Artagnan shifted behind Aramis and eased his long leather doublet carefully over his shoulders, trying to avoid rubbing against the open wounds on his back. Aramis could not help but wince as the garment pulled free, stinging where the leather had stuck to his wounds. The shreds of his torn shirt were similarly clinging to the drying blood and as D'Artagnan gently released them Aramis hissed with pain.

"Aramis," D'Artagnan breathed with dismay.

"I assure you," Aramis answered between clenched teeth, "it is not as bad as it looks," Aramis turned to face D'Artagnan as he stripped off the ruined shirt. The slices in his skin pulled as he flexed the muscles in his back, but Aramis felt bound to show D'Artagnan that he was not suffering unduly. "The ladies in Paris will enjoy the stories about this," he said with an almost feral smile and a wink of the eye. D'Artagnan shook his head in disbelief and took the remains of Aramis's shirt from his hands.

"Sit down," D'Artagnan said, nodding toward a chair by the fire, "I'll get the alcohol and a clean shirt." Aramis complied as D'Artagnan moved to their saddle bags, taking up the chair and straddling it backwards so that his arms wrapped around the back. The warm fire was comforting on his bare chest and as he waited for D'Artagnan to return, Aramis felt a deep weariness begin to settle into his body.

"May I?" Farhad's spoke softly behind him. Aramis hadn't even heard him approach. He gave a nod and bowed his head forward over the back of the chair. A warm hand brushed his unruly curls away from the wounds and rested reassuringly at the back of his neck. Aramis sucked in a breath as Farhad gently poked at the edges of some of the lashes, looking for signs of infection Aramis assumed and assessing which might need suturing. When Farhad's hand found the damaged ribs from where Varade had struck him with the farrier's hammer, Aramis couldn't completely stifle the sharp cry that the pain forced from his lips.

"My apologies, friend Aramis," Farhad said soothingly, but not releasing the slight pressure on his torso as he assessed the damage to his ribs, "This is something I did not expect to find." Aramis clutched the back of the chair, forcing himself not to pull away from the painful prodding. The hand on the back of his neck tightened in sympathy, but also reminded him to stay still. In another long moment it was over, and Aramis forced himself to take in some deep breaths despite the pain shooting through his side.

"That damage is not as severe as it could have been. Nothing is broken," Farhad assure him, "but it is perhaps that the bottom rib is cracked. I have a salve for this and will bind it. Your back, it is as you have said, it is not as bad as it might be. These welts are not deep, and you will not even need sutures. If we treat it properly, there may not even be scarring. Fortune has smiled on you in this."

Aramis gave a small laugh, "If you can call being strung up and whipped fortunate, then yes, I supposed so."

"No, that I would never suggest," Farhad said kindly, "Although we must realize that we are never given a burden to carry that we are not capable of bearing. In this my God and yours are the same." Farhad gave Aramis a small pat on the neck before releasing him and moving toward the table, "Let us clean your wounds and make you more comfortable and then we shall tend to friend Porthos."

"I'm fine," Aramis said, straightening in the chair, "Just need a fresh shirt. Porthos needs your help now."

"Come here by the bed," Farhad said turning to him with the basin of lavender and saltwater in his hands, "Sit with friend Porthos while I tend to him and perhaps we can press upon Master D'Artagnan to assist you?"

"Come, Aramis," D'Artagnan said, standing beside him, a spare shirt in his hands, "Do not be stubborn."

Aramis lifted a surprised brow and D'Artagnan met his eyes with challenge. The Gascon was cheeky to use his own words against him, but Aramis knew he was right. It was just pure stubbornness and pride that suggested Farhad was not as capable as he himself in tending to Porthos. Nor was it difficult to imagine how D'Artagnan would feel to think he was being coddled each time Aramis insisted they care for him but now would refuse care himself. As he was continually reminded, there was no room in their brotherhood for selfishness.

Aramis stood and moved the chair beside Porthos while D'Artagnan settled the basin on the top of the stool. He took up a clean cloth and began to gingerly dab at each of the open cuts along Aramis's back. The salt in the water stung, but it was not as cruel as the unrelenting burn of alcohol. Aramis made a note to remember this treatment when they were in a situation where they had other options beside the wine always on hand in Athos's saddle bags.

Across from him, Farhad was doing the same with Porthos. The big man stirred restlessly beneath his hands but did not seem fully aware of who was beside him. Aramis reached out and took Porthos's hand up between his, offering some comfort and soothing words while Farhad worked. Farhad gave him smile and an encouraging nod, approving of his attempts to comfort his comrade. This experience was so different than any Aramis had encountered with other physicians. There was something about them both being treated together that gave Aramis a strength of heart that made his own wounds easier to bear. He hoped that it was the same for Porthos, that he could feel that strength through the grip of his hand and the comforting words in his ear.

The injuries to Aramis's back were few and not deep. Many had not even broken skin as his torn shirt had provided some thin protection. D'Artagnan was finished quickly and stood to toss the bloody water into the bucket by the chamber pot.

"Master D'Artagnan," Farhad said, not looking up from his work, "Upon the table you will find a pot of ointment. Please apply some gently to Master Aramis's injuries, even the open cuts. Do not worry," Farhad added as he noticed Aramis's questioning glance, "it will be soothing, not painful. It has calendula oil which will aid in healing and keep the skin soft so as to prevent scaring. We will put some on your ribs too, then just your loose linen shirt to protect from dirt and debris as the wounds seal naturally on their own. By the time Master D'Artagnan is finished, I will have need of your assistance. Unlike you, there are lashes here that must be sutured and it is your hands that will aid his healing far better than mine. You must be ready."

* * *

The ointment had indeed soothed the fire in his back and Aramis was more comfortable, his headache dulled enough to allow him to concentrate. He stood by the bedside rolling his sleeves up and watching Master Farhad prepare. He had carefully laid out his surgical kit on the table beside Aramis, but sat on the stool opposite, tamping herbs into an unusual looking pipe. The shank and the bowl were some kind of fired glass, but there was also an ornate silver cone that could slip over the bowl.

"This I believe will be something you have not yet seen," Master Farhad said with a grin, holding up the pipe and cone, "It is one of the finest practices of court physicians in Persia. The smoke from these herbs is miraculous, providing relief from pain of the body and the mind."

Aramis had indeed seen nothing like it. "What are they?" he asked.

"Each healer has his own blend, secrets taught him by his respected tutor," Farhad explained as he finished packing the bowl of the pipe. "In this pipe you will find what you know to call mugwort to help dull pain and soothe the mind. But there is also some damiara to ease anxiousness and elecampane which soothes the lungs so the smoke does not cause irritation to the patient."

"You expect Porthos to smoke that?" D'Artagnan sounded incredulous. He was seated on the stool by Aramis's side, watching their preparations through half-lidded eyes, an arm casually wrapped around his torso. Aramis knew D'Artagnan was still another two weeks away from being past the pain in his ribs from the beating he took in the court. His youth and determination had kept him on his feet thus far, but like Aramis, the long night and the ensuing battle were finally catching up to him. The young Gascon had not faltered in caring for them since they had entered the garrison, but now with no task immediately to hand, Aramis could see weariness etched in the lines of his face. They would all need rest soon.

"No, no friend D'Artagnan," Farhad said with a musical laugh, "I shall produce the smoke and we will use this cone to direct it to his mouth and nose. This will put him at ease as Master Aramis provides the sutures."

D'Artagnan looked dubious and gave a glance to Aramis, asking without words what he thought of this idea. Aramis spared him a reassuring smile, "I have seen soldiers in a battlefield infirmary given mugwort in pipes to ease their suffering," Aramis said, "I imagine this will work too."

"It shall, Master Aramis, of this I can assure you." Farhad put away his pouches of herbs and took up a striker from the small bag at the bedside. "I am ready. Master Aramis, you will find a silver suturing needle in my kit and the finest and strongest silk for your work. When you are prepared, we shall begin."

Aramis picked up the spool from the kit unwound a length of the thin white thread, trimming it with a cut from a small golden knife shaped as the head of a heron. The silk was finer even than the linen threads ladies embroidered with, but when he tugged at it he found it didn't break. Aramis looked again in the kit and found the silver needle. He marveled at what silversmith could make a needle so thin and fine. He rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, marveling at the delicacy of it. The tiny diameter and sharp point would lessen the pain of the stitching. Aramis reminded himself to ask Master Farhad where he could acquire such needles. Surely somewhere in France, as Celeste de Varade had had one nearly of that quality.

Aramis's stomach clenched as he thought of her, remembered that not that many hours ago he had been forced to take her fine silver needle to his own flesh for no other purpose than her sick pleasure. A needle was meant for repair, not destruction. Memories of the markings on Porthos's back came to his mind, then Marie-Claire, her entire body a tale of cruelty. Aramis felt the bile rise in his stomach and he fought the urge to be sick.

His hands had a slight tremor as he raised them to thread the delicate silk trough the eye of the tiny needle. He couldn't manage it at first as his fingers refused to be still. But then he took a deep steadying breath, as he would if he was sighting a target down the barrel of his musket. He filled his lungs then let out a long slow exhale. As the air released a familiar and practiced calm soothed the jumbled thoughts in his mind. As the last of the air escaped his mouth, his hands were steady and he quickly pierced the eye with the thread, pulling it though. He took another calming breath as he set the knot at the end then gave Farhad a nod that he was read to begin.

"Wake him," Farhad said quietly, "Tell him to breathe. Tell him he will be cared for," Farhad gave Aramis a gentle smile, his eyes squinting again in that same curious way as if reading something on his face, "And you, Master Aramis, you will be as well."

Aramis felt a stab of sadness, knowing that his hurts were not the kind to be cured by potions and vials, but he simply nodded and put a hand to Porthos shoulder.

"Wake up, _mon ami_ ," he said, giving the big man a gentle shake, "It's time we tended these hurts." Porthos's eyes rolled beneath his lids but it only took a moment before he opened his eyes. Aramis watched Porthos's eyes settle on him and he gave him a reassuring smile. "Master Farhad has prepared something to ease the pain, just breathe in. Relax. I'll take care of you." Worry seemed to cross Porthos's brow, but he nodded and Aramis could see the trust in his eyes.

Master Farhad struck a spark to the pipe and started the bowl burning. A few soft puffs let out a sweet scented white smoke curling up into the air. Farhad slipped the cone over the pipe and leaned close to Porthos, the smoke gathered in the cone and spilled out the wide end. Porthos breathed deeply, the smoke curling into his mouth and nose. It did not seem to disturb him, and he did not cough or sputter. Just inhaled and exhaled slowly as Aramis encouraged him to breathe.

Master Farhad set the pipe aside, but a small haze of smoke hung delicately in the room, the sweet smell a pleasant shift from the smell of blood and human sickness so typical of an infirmary.

"You may begin," Master Farhad said solemnly, as if instructing Aramis to begin a ritual, "But you must tell him what you are doing. Your words, your hands will soften the wounds of mind and body and give hope and healing in the spaces where there was only despair and pain. The medicine in the smoke will open his mind, but it is you who will truly heal him." Farhad gave Aramis a nod, his face serious as he took up a damp cloth. The sutures would raise blood, and Aramis knew that Farhad would work to keep the area clean to ease Aramis's work with the needle. Beside him, D'Artagnan stirred slightly and leaned forward, and Aramis saw him take up Porthos's hand, needing to lend himself to this in some way as well. Aramis thought that Athos should be here too, but it was too late to worry about that now. He picked up the needle and laid a hand to the worst of the slashes.

"Porthos, I'm going to start here. I will be quick as I can, I know how much you do not like this," Aramis said, giving his friend a smile. Porthos narrowed his eyes and gave what might have been a growl and Aramis's smile deepened. That at least was a hint of the Porthos they knew.

Aramis gave a gentle pinch over each side of the deep cut in Porthos's chest and his stomach again threatened to rebel as he thought about plunging the needle into his friend's flesh. Sweat plucked at his brow and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. He could do this, he had to do this. If he thought of suturing as torture, he could not care for his wounded brothers. He needed the certainty that each painful stitch was an expression of healing, of love or he would never be able to lift the needle again.

A warm hand slipped over his where he held together the open wound, fingers echoing his own. Aramis glanced up to Master Farhad, the thin haze from the mugwort smoke haloing around his head. His face was still, a calmness that Aramis knew as the serenity of the faithful, of those monks and priests who found true spiritual sustenance through devotion and prayer. Farhad held out his other hand and Aramis extended his own, the needle laying loosely on his fingertips. Farhad cupped Aramis's hand and gently pressed his fingers together, encouraging him without words to take up the needle again. Aramis felt his hands trembling, but rolled the needle up between his fingers, and again, Master Farhad let his own hand lay over Aramis's duplicating the position. Together they guided the needle to rest the point delicately at the place for the first suture.

"We are healers," Master Farhad said, "And we shall do no harm." His kind eyes were full of love and mercy, his warm hand steadying the shake in Aramis's own. Aramis looked to Porthos, his eyes slightly gazed but looking up to him with such trust.

"I shall do you no harm, _mon ami_ , _"_ Aramis echoed, then looked back to the needle and let the fine silver tip slide easily into Porthos's flesh. He felt his friend stiffen beneath his hands but also felt the calm sure grip of Master Farhad steady them both. He worked the needle through, pulling the thread cleanly and moving to reposition it for the next stitch. Farhad's hand was there again, an echo, a support of his own.

"Thy name is healing, O my God, and remembrance of Thee is my remedy," Farhad's musical voice gave the words a sound of a chant. This was a prayer, Aramis realized, although not one he knew. He let the words wash over him as he and Farhad worked together. "Thy name is healing, O my God, and remembrance of Thee is my remedy. Nearness to Thee is my hope, and love for Thee is my companion. Thy mercy to me is my healing and my succor in both this world and the world to come. Thou, verily, art the All-Bountiful, the All-Knowing, the All-Wise."

Aramis slipped the needle through again, placing a small, neat stitch carefully beside the first one. It was important that the stitches be tight and even, that he pierce flesh strong enough to hold and not tear through the tug of the strong silk. His work here would be what remained on Porthos's body, not the cruel lashes of Benoit Varade. Each stitch, each tug of the thread and slice of the needle erased the wounds left at the hands of others. _Thy name is healing, O my God, and remembrance of Thee is my remedy._ Aramis felt his heart lift on those words as Farhad continued to softly repeat the prayer. God had given him the steady hands of a marksman and he could take the life of those who threatened the innocent, but those same hands could heal as they had many times before, as they were now, and as they would again in the future.

His work took on a rhythm, a chant of its own, the in and out of the needle, the small tug on the threads, the knots to hold the silk in place. He spoke to Porthos, sometimes repeating with Farhad the words of the prayer, sometimes narrating his care, telling him he was placing a knot, or there were only five more sutures to go. Porthos stayed calm, sometimes muttering unknowable words but never seeming to be in distress. At some point Master Farhad had let go of Aramis's hands and he worked on his own now, surety returning to his heart and peace in his soul.

* * *

 _He was drifting again. Not a boat though, more like floating on a river. Different scenes passing by._

 _The furious fight in the stable, the fire burning through him as he strangled the life out of that bastard. Then Aramis. Aramis. Holding him up, his brown eyes real this time, the promise of rescue, safety._

 _Another shift, laying on his back in the sun, his brothers around him. He knew he could die then._

 _Softness surrounding him, his brother's hands tending his body. He was dead? They prepared him. He could let go._

 _Then he woke up, truly stepped from the fog in his mind and Aramis was there to tell him to breathe. Breathe. And he did, as he had before, as he realized he would again. Athos clasping his hand, refusing to let him die even though . . . even though everything. Athos would not allow it. Athos who protected them all. Athos who could not be refused. He was found. He would always be found. D'Artagnan promised it. Stubborn Gascon. Unfailing._

 _They wanted to know his story but speaking was too much. The days had been too much. He listened instead not truly focused on their words but comforted by the sound of their voices. He drank wine. There was someone else too. He couldn't remember but he was with his brothers and none of it mattered._

 _He felt the sting in his chest and opened his eyes in a panic, but there again was Aramis. The man with the musical voice and the soft brown hands continued to bathe his wounds – he would have pushed him aside but Aramis was there – steady, unwavering._

 _A sweet scent was on the air when he lifted again from the fog of his mind._

 _I shall do no harm._

 _He felt the first slip of the needle into his flesh and expected to see her. But it was Aramis, Aramis who promised he would do no harm. Instead of her incessant humming, the words of a prayer washed over him_

 _Thy name is healing, O my God, and remembrance of Thee is my remedy._

 _Nearness to Thee is my hope, and love for Thee is my companion._

 _Not her hands. Not her face. Aramis's mark was on his skin – as at had been before, as it would be again. She receded. A reflection, a ghost. Aramis, D'Artagnan, Athos – they were all he saw now eyes open or closed._

 _I shall do no harm._

 _He floated on a river. His brothers at his side._

* * *

Master Farhad sometimes used the pipe and cone again and the gentle smoke remained in the air. Aramis knew that its healing properties must be affecting them all, but there was no dullness to his mind, rather a clarity of purpose that seemed to enrich his every gesture. Farhad continued to manage the trails of blood that rose from the needle, and he traced the calendula ointment over each line of suturing. D'Artagnan laid strips of linen soaked in lavender water over Farhad's work, sometimes also wiping sweat from Aramis's brow. At some point Athos had returned, as Aramis noticed him at his side helping Porthos to drink something or taking his own hands now and then to wipe them clean of blood and hand him a cup of ale or water.

Time moved like water slipping along a beach, a slow unrelenting tide that seemed static until the waters rose to the pier. Aramis was lost in its ebb and flow, words of prayer washing over him in waves, words of healing to his brother slipping to the shore like gifts from the sea.

And then they were finished and Aramis let the needle be lifted from his fingers, let Athos wash his hands and wipe his face with a cool, damp cloth. Was it D'Artagnan that helped him to stand? Athos who stripped him of his boots? He didn't know, it didn't matter. Exhaustion settled over him like a blanket. He had enough energy left to drink something sweet from a cup pressed to his lips, and then sleep took him into its arms, promising its own healing oblivion.


	22. Chapter 22

_A/N: Thank you all for your kind wishes and kind comments. I'm healing well, and while it's been a little harder for me to get back to the rhythm of writing than I expected, I'm happy to share the next chapter. I'm out of town for several days, so there will be a little delay before I can post again. I promise I will not leave this story undone. Thanks toIssai for her constant support and careful thoughts about the shape and details of the story. She makes everything better. This mistakes are still all mine._

* * *

A small sound roused him immediately. He cocked his head ever so slightly and peered to his left from under the brim of his hat, the fingers of his right hand flicking lightly over the hilt of his sword, propped next to him. It was just Corporal Durand, setting an iron pot at the hook by the hearth. Athos relaxed, shifting in his chair to let his feet drop quietly to the floor from where they had been propped on the edge of the bed. At his motion, Durand glanced over but Athos gave him a grateful nod and a small wave of his hand, letting the Corporal know it was alright to proceed.

The sun was low in the sky, on the edges to giving way to evening, and all of his men slept on, the whispers of the cool sea breeze an underscore to the snores and murmurs that occasionally rose up from the cots in the room. They slept deeply, but none of them truly ever slept peacefully.

Immediately beside him, Aramis lay on his stomach, one arm tucked under his head and the other trailing off the edge of the cot. Athos had pulled the back of the voluminous linen shirt Aramis wore up to his shoulders, leaving the wounds on his back exposed to the fresh air from the open windows in the infirmary. Warm sunlight had stretched across his friend's back, leaving him comfortable despite the breeze.

Athos still felt the twist of fury in his gut at the damage done to the marksman. He would have shaken him awake and demanded answers had not Master Farhad intervened and pleaded to let Aramis rest. Athos had spun round to confront D'Artagnan, but the Gascon had been sitting beside Porthos, changing out the drying linens draped across the big man's chest for fresh, damp ones. From the hunch in D'Artagnan's shoulders and the lines in his face, Athos could see the young recruit was at the edge of exhaustion himself. So Athos bit his tongue and swallowed his anger, putting the need for answers below the need for the care and rest. But there would be a reckoning for all of this. Nothing was forgotten or forgiven yet.

The Gascon slept restlessly on a cot across from Porthos. He was curled slightly on his side, still in his leathers and boots. He'd refused to rest for the longest time, carefully managing Porthos's dressings and helping Athos with applying the calendula to Aramis's back. He and Athos had eaten a quiet meal shortly after the noon bell, and finally, after the third cup of wine, Athos had coaxed him to at least make himself comfortable on the cot. D'Artagnan had finally fallen asleep and despite whatever troubled his dreams, Athos doubted he would be able to rouse him easily.

Athos moved quietly from Aramis's bedside to Porthos's. He bent down to gently place his hand on his friend's chest, checking the moistness of the bandages. Master Farhad had instructed them to keep the wounds moist for the first 24 hours of healing. This was unusual, but he promised that the body's natural state was to heal itself and moisture allowed the healing properties of blood to work at their fullest. The calendula salve helped to form a barrier between the wounds and any dirt or debris that might cause infection but also helped to keep pain at bay while softening the skin. If they cared for Porthos carefully, he would have the slightest of scars remaining after his ordeal. Tomorrow Master Farhad would return and then they would bandage those wounds that needed it and begin to treat the scars and sutures on Porthos's back as well.

Athos shifted to the other side of the bed, sitting on the stool that at least one of them had occupied for the better part of the day. Master Farhad had cautioned them to change the poultice on the brand frequently. It was a deep and cruel burn and the damaged flesh required constant moisture and nourishment if it was to heal smoothly. Farhad had been so optimistic about methods to help fade the scars from the sutures decorating Porthos's back that Athos had asked him about the brand as well. To that Master Farhad had finally turned grim – there was no medicine he knew that could ever erase that mark from Porthos's skin. It was simply a matter of how it might heal – angry and rough if not treated properly or gentled by vigilant and constant care.

Athos stripped the layers of bandages form over the brand and dropped the soiled cloths into the bucket at his feet. He took up a fresh cloth and moistened it with the same lavender water they were using for the linen strips covering the fresh sutures and lashes. Athos carefully washed away the remains of the earlier poultice. Porthos stirred slightly beneath his touch and Athos hushed him, remembering that Master Farhad said that he would likely stay sleeping as an aftereffect of the herbal treatment and from just exhaustion. He cautioned them not to worry if their friend did not fully regain consciousness or command over his faculties until well into the second day.

Athos took up the calendula salve and dredged some up from the pot with his fingers. They would need to make more soon, as they were using it to treat both Aramis and Porthos. Athos began to lightly outline the brand, careful not to further abrade the raw flesh. The upside down "Y" was red and inflamed, and despite his care Porthos was disturbed by his touch.

Master Farhad had cautioned him about holding his anger in his mind when he tended to his comrades, that they would sense it and it would cause their suffering to deepen, but Athos was losing that battle as his fingers moved along the marks of the brand. That someone had dared to do this to a King's musketeer, to someone under his charge, to a free man of Paris galled Athos like a fire in his gut. But that is was one of his own, a brother in all but blood, someone he would protect against all others and yet had failed miserably to keep him safe, twisted that fire to mark him as deeply as the brand on Porthos's chest.

It was impossible not to be angry, to want to wring the neck of Benoit Varade and his sister with his bare hands. Aramis's assurance that he had killed the brother did not lessen his desire for retribution. No, it was impossible for Athos right now to tend to Porthos with love. But if what Farhad said was true, and that his friends could sense what was in his heart, then he hoped Porthos would take his fire as his strength. Yes, there would be a reckoning and Athos would exact it with steel and fists and the full authority of a Lieutenant in the King's Musketeers.

* * *

Aramis woke with a slight shiver, a cool breeze blowing across his exposed back, gooseflesh prickling his skin. He shifted his arm to reach behind him for the bedcovers and immediately pain shot through his side as his cracked rib reminded him that he needed to move slowly. He let out a small cry, paused mid-motion and tried to take a long breath against the pain. A weight shifted from off the cot and Aramis opened his eyes to see Athos straightening himself up on a chair beside him, alerted by his distress. Athos extended a hand and captured the arm Aramis had stiffened behind him, then got his other hand to Aramis's chest.

"Sit up," Athos ordered quietly, encouraging him to shift to an upright position, "It'll ease the pain." Aramis grabbed tightly to Athos's hand and pulled himself up from the cot while Athos took some of his weight by getting his hand under Aramis's other arm. Athos maneuvered him upright and Aramis swung his legs over the side of the bed, feet pressing hard on the floorboards as he worked to get a full breath.

Aramis just sat, breathing in through his nose, out through his mouth, trying to sort the pain in his ribs from the throb in his head. He hurt. He forced himself to breathe through it and as the worst receded he realized he still had a white-knuckled grip on Athos's hand. Not trusting himself to speak yet, he caught Athos's eye and gave him a nod. Athos gave Aramis a squeeze to the shoulder and loosened his grip on Aramis's hand, letting him slowly release the support when he was ready. Athos settled back on the stool, waiting for Aramis to regain his composure.

"How long was I out?" Aramis finally asked, looking around the darkened room. There was a twilight glow from the windows and candles sputtered on the table. Aramis's eyes drifted across the room to acknowledge Porthos sleeping peacefully in the cot nearest the fire.

"About eight hours, it's just past supper," Athos answered, taking off his hat and running a hand through his hair, "I've woken you a few times, you just don't remember."

"Concussion," Aramis said with a grimace, raising a hand to gingerly press at the lump at the back of his head, hidden in his tousled curls. Someone had cleaned the wound, there was no congealed, sticky blood imbedded in his hair. Aramis was surprised he did not remember it, it could not have been pleasant, but it just must have been a testament to his exhaustion. "How's Porthos?" he asked next.

"Sleeping. Farhad said it could easily be two days before he is fully coherent again," Athos's voice was flat, devoid of any emotion that might suggest anything about his feelings regarding the healer's prognosis or the well-being of his friend. Aramis took this as a bad sign. Athos at his calmest was a thunderstorm ready to unleash its destruction upon the earth. "He's been awake enough to take water and medicine, but not very coherent. But does seem to know he is with us."

"You've been tending him?" Aramis asked.

"Yes, but mostly D'Artagnan. Our Gascon has proved a most capable a caretaker," Athos said, twisting his head to look over his shoulder toward Porthos. Aramis followed his gaze and noted the human-sized lump curled up in the middle of the next cot nearest to Porthos. "He's refused to leave his side, but I did persuade him to get some sleep. We are all in need of it."

"That is true for you too, _mon ami_ ," Aramis said, arching an eyebrow toward Athos.

"Then who would play nursemaid to you?" Athos said with a near smile, "Could you manage something to eat?"

"Yes, I'm actually hungry," Aramis answered gratefully. Athos pushed himself up from the stool and moved to the hearth where Corporal Durand had left a fish stew for them earlier in the evening. Aramis brought a hand to his face, rubbing sleep from his eyes. His back was a trail of stinging fire, different parts aggravated depending on how he moved. His head still throbbed, but more willow bark tea would ease it and probably some more sleep. All told though, he was mending. Sleep had been what he most needed, what he still needed, but now that he was awake, he was troubled.

With Master Farhad's help, he'd been able to pick up a needle again. Images from earlier in the morning slipped elusively in and out of his mind. He had held fear and somehow it had been eased. He remembered the supportive, gentle hands on his but did not remember when they had left him. He had started with uncertainty and moved to surety but was not sure how. The words of Farhad's prayer had sheltered him, he knew the words now, could call on them again if needed. He was not afraid anymore – if he needed to stitch a man's flesh to save his life, he knew that he could do it once again. Aramis pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a deep exhale.

It was not fear that he struggled with now, it was shame at what he had felt compelled to do to himself, guilt for not finding another way, anger for not saving Marie-Claire – for not saving Porthos to begin with. He had no idea what to do to make things right again. If his own soul struggled like this, what must it be for Porthos whose body was now a roadmap of the misery he endured? A constant reminder of the evil of man against man. Athos interrupted his thoughts as he sat again on the stool before him, a bowl in each hand. Aramis took it gratefully, not recalling the last time he had had a meal.

They ate in silence. Athos rising once to bring them a bottle of wine and two cups. The sky darkened as twilight gave way to evening, the breeze off the water growing colder. The warm glow from the fire cast a ruddy light around the room, the candles carving out bright pools against the shadows. Aramis felt an unusual distance from his friends, isolated like a candle in darkness with not enough brightness to cast out a light to any of them.

"You're brooding," Athos said as he took the forgotten bowl from Aramis's hands and rose to place it on the table.

"We should change the poultice," Aramis answered, "And the dressings on the sutures."

"Already done," Athos replied, returning with a handful of linen strips and a pot of salve, "It's you who needs care at the moment." Athos's words were sincere, but his blue eyes were inscrutable as he sat beside Aramis on the bed. There were too many responses to what Athos had just said and Aramis chose to give none of them.

"Farhad said to bind your ribs after you were awake," Athos told him as he organized and knotted the linen strips across his lap, "Then more salve for your back. It's a mess by the way."

"Thank you," Aramis said matching Athos's deadpan tone. It was their way, this flat banter, but Aramis sensed something else behind Athos's words. Aramis used his left hand to lift his shirt and bring it to his chest. Athos balanced the pot of salve on his knee then took up Aramis's right arm and settled it on his shoulder. Aramis was surprised how warm Athos's hands were as he gently massaged the ointment over his bruised ribs.

"Do you want to tell me how this happened?" Athos asked quietly as he took up the bandages. He began to wind the knotted linen around Aramis's midsection, tightly enough to give the injured ribs some support but not so tight as to impede breathing.

"D'Artagnan didn't tell you?" Aramis said between clenched teeth. He felt his stomach twist. Somehow he had hoped Athos already knew and perhaps his anger at him would be already dissipating.

"D'Artagnan is nothing if not loyal," Athos responded, "If he sensed you did not want me to know, he would not have told me. At least not as long as he felt you were not in any danger. Breathe in," Athos added, giving the linen wrapping a last tug as Aramis did.

Tight as the bindings were, Aramis welcomed the relief they gave. He gave Athos a grateful smile as he released his shirt and returned his other arm to his lap. Athos's brow furrowed and he reached to take up Aramis's right arm again.

"What's this?" Athos said, gently rotating Aramis's hand to expose the torn flesh on his wrist, "Were you shackled as well?" Athos's blue eyes smoldered and Aramis knew he would not avoid this conversation any longer.

Aramis pulled his arm from Athos's grasp, rubbing absently at his hand as he spoke, reluctant to recount again the state in which he found Porthos. "I had convinced Celeste de Varade to lead me to where she was keeping Porthos, and when I saw him – shackled and chained in a horse stall . . . bloody, beaten . . ." Aramis paused, swallowing down the emotion rising in his chest, "Athos I could have killed her then. Slit her throat and freed Porthos of the shackles myself. But instead, I made her do it. She had the key on her belt. Her brother surprised me from behind and I woke up strung up over a beam." Aramis raised his head to look at Athos and was met with a wall of icy fury. The swordsman was clearly furious at him and was barely holding back his anger. Aramis flushed, knowing he had brought this on himself. Athos pushed himself up from the bed, half kicking the stool out of his way and turning his back to Aramis.

Aramis felt something sink in his heart.

"I know what you are going to say," Aramis continued in a rush of emotion, "That I'm reckless, that I shouldn't have gone in alone, I shouldn't have been distracted," Aramis stood, wanting to put a hand to Athos's shoulder, but knowing his gesture would not be welcome, "I made the best choices I could, what else was I supposed to do?" Aramis heard the plea in his own voice as his emotions got the best of him.

Athos whirled and faced him, anger flashing across his face, but Aramis didn't care. He stood by his choices, stood by the decision to try and save Porthos, even if it had not gone as it should have. "You have no right to judge me for the actions I have taken." Aramis's jaw was tight, his body tense as his own anger rose up to meet Athos's. He knew himself too well to think he would let himself back down.

"Aramis," Athos twisted one hand into Aramis's shirt and stepped into the marksman, "You think this anger is for you?" he hissed, "You think I can look at you bloodied and beaten and not feel the same rage as when I look at the horrific marks across Porthos's back, the mark of slavery on my brother's chest?" Athos curled his fist tighter in Aramis's shirt, the fabric stretching abrasively across his tender back, "If you think I can just ignore what has been inflicted on your body because of your misplaced guilt about your own actions, you are wrong," Athos paused, staring, searching for something in Aramis's eyes. He let out a slow exhale, his next words soft and sad, "Do you think so little of me that I only care for one of you and not both?"

Aramis's heart was stricken. He was so full of shame and judgment about his own actions, his own inability to prevent what had happened to Porthos, he had simply assumed Athos's anger upon himself. He could no longer look Athos in the eye. Aramis hung his head and put a hand over Athos's wrist where the swordsman was still gripping his shirt. He had wronged his brother deeply by suggesting Athos's protection, loyalty – love – did not extend to all of them.

"I shame myself by dishonoring you," Aramis said gruffly, further words trapped in his throat by the jumble of emotions rippling through him.

"Peace, Aramis," Athos said, quiet calm control returning to his voice. The hand in his shirt shifted to grip him gently by the shoulder, "Your suffering, in your heart, in your body, does not dishonor me. Those who dared touch my friends – _my brothers –_ those are the ones who should fear me."

Aramis let out a long slow exhale and nodded. After all these years, he should know better than to underestimate the love that Athos held for all of them. Taciturn, challenging, judgmental as he was, Athos never failed to put each of them first in his own way.

"Come," Athos said, "Let me tend to your back," he dropped his hand from Aramis's shoulder and moved to retrieve the stool he had shoved away. Aramis took the respite and distance that Athos offered and moved to sit on the cot, pulling the back of shirt over his head so it draped just across his chest.

Athos pulled up the stool and took up the pot of anointment again, but he paused his action, to instead reach out to hay a hand on Aramis's arm. He waited until Aramis raised his head to meet his ice blue gaze.

"Tell me about this," Athos said, his thumb lightly smoothing the fresh bandage on Aramis's forearm, "Is this the work of Celeste Varade as well?" Athos's lips were tight and Aramis recognized his struggle to keep his anger in check.

Aramis took a deep breath, he did not want to discuss the events of the previous night, but he could not just continue to lie to Athos through his omission. Obviously, he had seen the wound as the fresh bandage testified. To let continue to let Athos think that the worst of the situation was not right. "That is not the work of her hands, those sutures are my own," Aramis said, feeling hot shame rise in his cheeks. He was not sure why he should feel ashamed, he had done what he needed to do to save Porthos, but still, his guilt was deep. Had he gone too far? No, he knew he would have gone even farther. And that perhaps was what was terrifying him.

"This would be easier if you were to lie down," Athos said, an insistent lift to his eyebrow. "While I do this, will you tell me?" Athos asked.

Aramis nodded and gave him a thin smile, shifting to lay on his stomach, grateful he would not have to look Athos in the eye as he shared his tale. The salve was cooling and the sweet smell restful. Aramis started to relax as the fire dissipated from his back. He began from when he first entered the brothel and his encounter with Marie-Claire. His brother's hands offered gentle relief to the pain of his body as he hoped his confession would somehow soothe his soul.

Aramis described it all – the strange picture frame that could hold a human, the cabinet full of gleaming blades, the sewing kit of the finest needles and threads and the appearance of Marie-Claire. It was hard for him to think of her, to paint a picture for Athos of the depths of depravity that Celeste Varade had inflicted on the poor girl.

By the time he got to his own part of the tale, where he had fed Celeste's lust for torture to allow him to gain her trust, Athos had finished with the salve on his back and had helped him to sit again to drink some willow bark tea. They sat closely together, Aramis whispering his dark secrets into the black night so as not to disturb their sleeping friends. Athos's eyes flickered brightly in the candlelight, but he made no move to interrupt Aramis or ask any questions. They simply sat side by side, shoulder to shoulder, and Aramis let the story unfold into the quiet space that Athos had created.

At the end, he was exhausted and grateful for the hands that eased him to lay back down. Athos closed the window against the chill of the night but again positioned Aramis's shirt so that the wounds were left exposed to the open air.

"I gave a full report to Demont," Athos said quietly as he sat beside Aramis, "He went to the governor this afternoon. He has instructions to seize the Varade's assets. He is sending a clipper to _Saint Pierre_ tomorrow to track down Celeste. There will be a reckoning of all that has been done to Porthos – to you."

"I know I should want justice, not vengeance," Aramis answered, "But I do not. I regret not having killed her when I could have. Maybe that damns my soul."

"Your God will not damn you for the love you bear, Aramis," Athos said, laying a hand gently on Aramis's head, "You and I will bring our swords to back to that brothel tomorrow. We will get justice for those who are wronged. We will not leave one soul there to suffer. This I promise you," Athos's words felt like a benediction – a blessing over his troubled mind. "Go to sleep, Aramis," he said, "Nothing will disturb any of us this night."

Aramis sighed and felt himself start to drift off, felt the dip of the mattress as Athos shifted to a chair and put his feet up again on the bed. He did not have to open his eyes to know that Athos had his head tipped to his chest and hat slung over his eyes. Athos would keep silent vigil at his bedside, even if Aramis urged him to lay down. He'd change Porthos's dressings, he'd get D'Artagnan fed and out of his boots. He'd have another bottle of wine. But mostly he would watch over them, protecting them from their demons in the darkest hour of the night. Comforted, Aramis slept.


	23. Chapter 23

_A/N: My gratitude is boundless for the kind comments and insightful reviews you continue to share with me - particular thanks to those guest reviews I cannot reply to. My apologies to those I was not able to answer personally, I do try to get to everyone! Thanks also to the gracious and ever patientIssai who puts great time and effort into making these chapters better. Could not manage without her as my beta-reader :) And yet, my mistakes shine through !_

* * *

"Auwck! I'm supposed to drink this?" Aramis grimaced as he tried to force himself to swallow the bitter concoction. Based on his scowl, D'Artagnan thought it was even money that he would just as likely spit it back into the cup. They were sitting with Athos around the small table finishing breakfast and even Athos had a ghost of a smile on his face as they watched Aramis try to manage the hot drink.

"Here," D'Artagnan said, picking up the sugar nips and breaking off a lump from the cone. He tossed it into Aramis's cup, "It's better with sugar."

"Nothing will make this better," Aramis muttered, "What is it again?"

"Coffee," D'Artagnan said for the third time at least, "Master Farhad says it dispels lethargy." D'Artagnan raised his own cup and took a long sip.

"You like that?" Aramis was incredulous, "I can't even get you to drink dark ale. This is far worse."

"Try it with the sugar, it's not bad once you get used to it," D'Artagnan replied, smiling. Aramis glowered but raised the cup again. D'Artagnan was fairly certain that Aramis's pride would force him to finish the cup if just to show D'Artagnan that he could do it.

"Gentlemen," Athos leaned forward, crossing his arms to lean on the table, "if you are quite through?" He raised an eyebrow and D'Artagnan knew that Athos's indulgence for their trivial squabble was over. Aramis shot D'Artagnan one last dark look, but then the marksmen shifted straighter in his chair, giving his attention back to the business at hand.

"I sent dispatches to Treville yesterday stating Porthos's condition and confirming the participation of the Varades. Captain Demont also took a full report to the Governor in the afternoon. After what I shared with him about the brothel this morning, he has already given orders to his men to prepare to visit there this evening."

"The Governor will allow it?" Aramis was surprised, "He is likely to be rounding up many upstanding citizens of _Le Havre_ if he waits until evening."

"The Governor, it turns out, is a pious man," Athos replied, "His brother, the Bishop, insisted that this den of depravity be rooted out."

"Meaning the Governor confiscates the property and the Bishop makes them pay dearly for the redemption of their souls," Aramis said tight lipped, "And no one to think of the women who will lose their livelihood, or to care for the girls abused by the wealthy sinners of the Bishop's flock."

Athos raised a brow to Aramis's derision, "Captain Demont has made arrangements at the Convent of Saint Helene for the women."

"So, it's prison then," Aramis said grimly, setting his mug on the table with a thud, "Or may as well be."

"What would you have me do?" Athos said calmly, not rising to Aramis's emotional challenge, "Suggest Captain Demont turn them out on the street? Send them down the road to the next Madame who could be just as unsavory as the last? Or perhaps you think the garrison is in need of more whores?" Athos's voice was deadpan, but his eyes flashed a warning. D'Artagnan looked to Aramis, wondering if he was aware of the danger in Athos's eyes, wondering if he even cared. The marksman could be headstrong and defiant, D'Artagnan had witnessed him challenge Athos enough times to know that simple authority of a Lieutenant over a soldier was not enough to keep Aramis in check.

"What of the injured, the abused?" Aramis pressed, eyes as dangerous as Athos's.

"They are to come back here, to the infirmary, if you are willing to take on their care," Athos answered quietly.

"Me?" Aramis was surprised, "How's that?"

"Captain Demont did not think the garrison physician would be appropriate to the task and with what you have learned from Master Farhad, and are likely to continue to learn, he will bring them here if you will take them in charge," was Athos's answer. D'Artagnan realized this had been what Athos had wanted to share with them all along had Aramis simply listened. "The Captain realizes that we will be tending Porthos here for a while, he thought you might be willing to extend your attention to the women who were also victims of Celeste de Varade."

"Of course," Aramis said with a quiet nod, the tension leaching from his body as he shifted back in his chair, "But how long are we to stay?"

"Demont requested our temporary reassignment to his command at _Le Havre_ until the end of the month," Athos explained, "He sent the request to Treville with the dispatches yesterday. That gives us a little over a fortnight here until we will need to travel back to Paris."

"And Captain Treville will honor this request?" D'Artagnan broke into their conversation, "Why would he do it now that Porthos is found? Doesn't he want us all back in Paris?"

"Porthos's injuries will take constant care for the better part of the next week at least," Athos explained, "We will not be able to do that on the road. Captain Demont and I discussed it yesterday and temporary reassignment was the best option unless we were to leave Porthos here alone," Athos paused and looked pointedly at Aramis, "Which I will not do," he added. "I am confident Treville will understand that our place is here," Athos gave D'Artagnan a smile, "But even if he was disinclined, Demont's intercession on our behalf will be granted. It turns out Demont and Treville served together."

"In the army?" Aramis said, brow furrowing.

"In the _Bastille_ ," Athos said, smiling at the surprised look on the other men's faces, "It seems Treville and Demont were cellmates during Marie di' Medici's failed coup. They have a brotherhood of their own it seems."

"That's luck!" D'Artagnan said with a big smile.

"No, _mon ami_ ," Aramis said thoughtfully, "That is grace."

* * *

Master Farhad returned after they had finished their breakfast. He seemed pleased to see them rested and approved the care they had given Aramis and Porthos thus far. The dressings on Porthos's chest were clean and moist just as he had instructed. There were no signs of infection or seepage. Farhad did not remove the dressings from the brand yet, but Athos assured him it had been frequently changed throughout the night. Nor did he rouse Porthos to look at his back, although he shared with the other men that removing the stitching from those healing wounds was his next priority. The musketeers had been concerned that Porthos was still sleeping, but Farhad reassured them this was expected considering the abuse to the body and the exhaustion from the last six days.

Farhad had brought more herbs and flowers to be crushed and worked with his oils into salves, along with fresh bandages, and his box of medicines. D'Artagnan fetched the mortar and pestle he had used yesterday from the cabinet and Aramis got started stripping and shredding the orange marigold flowers for the calendula salve. Athos took the opportunity to excuse himself, needing to report back to the Harbormaster about the prior day's events and retrieve Aramis's horse and the rest of their belongings from his stables. He also wanted to check on preparations for the raid this evening and follow-up with Captain Demont about their duty rotation for the time they would be in his service.

As Athos closed the door behind him, Aramis couldn't help but smile to himself. Athos had watched over them all in the infirmary for a full day and Aramis knew he was happy to be at the end of it. Not that Athos would leave if he was needed, but a long association with the man told Aramis that Athos would rather just about any duty other than nursing. D'Artagnan on the other hand seemed interested, eager to learn more things that might prove useful to him as a soldier and wanting desperately to show he could be trusted to care for them whether in the infirmary or in battle. Aramis considered their Gascon recruit as he carefully listened to Master Farhad's instructions and remembered his own determination as a young soldier to learn all he could and prove his worth to the unit. He had been even younger than D'Artagnan when he entered the army but learned quickly he could dispel naysayers by being the best – the best shot, the best soldier, the best comrade to everyone. Maybe that was why D'Artagnan fit so easily with them. They could each see in him some aspect of themselves, remember the young, idealistic men they used to be.

Porthos was the same age as Aramis, as best they could reckon as they did not know his true date of birth, but had come to the army, and the musketeers, at an older age than either Aramis or D'Artagnan. He was cautious and uncertain at first, far from the big, bold presence he held in the garrison now, but he was full of hope and determination. Perhaps that was what had drawn Aramis to him so quickly. No matter his uncertainty, there was a buoyancy about Porthos's spirit that seemed to shine through. Aramis had taught him to shoot and it had been a hard road. Porthos would never have the finesse that Aramis did, but he was accurate enough – even more importantly, accurate when he was drawing from the ground or coming up from a roll. His size belied his physical precision. He had had to work at swordplay and shooting much harder than he had in hand-to-hand combat, but once he knew the weapons well enough, they just became physical extensions of his limbs. As Porthos grew proud of his skills and his place in the musketeers, his quiet caution gave way to a confident, cocky prankster as ready for a card game as he was a fight. As they began to take missions together they discovered they were a formidable pair.

"Your thoughts are not here, friend Aramis," Master Farhad said as he handed Aramis a bundle of chamomile ready to also be stripped from its stems.

Aramis gave the healer a shrug, "Never thought I'd find myself a scullery maid when I took up as a musketeer." D'Artagnan flashed him a smile even as he shook his head at Aramis's cheekiness.

"Master Aramis our acquaintance may be short, but I already note that the creator did not make you one for idle hands," Master Farhad chided, "I can only imagine the chaos in the infirmary if I did not provide you with useful occupation."

D'Artagnan laughed outright as Aramis raised his open palms in a plea for innocence, "Master Farhad, you wrong me!" he said, taking on his most contrite countenance. Master Farhad simply shook his head with a tsk, clearly not changing his opinion in the face of Aramis's protest.

"I am steadfast in my opinion given the evidence my own eyes have shown me," Farhad replied, "Bolstered by the ample warnings provided by Master Athos," he added, eyes twinkling despite his stern gaze.

"Betrayed," Aramis snorted, shaking his head in mock dismay but returning to pluck at the chamomile stalks in front of him. Master Farhad smiled as he turned his attention to D'Artagnan, nodding approvingly over the mixture he had concocted and passing him some stoneware jars for him to begin to fill with the oily paste. They worked on in companionable silence until Aramis finished with the chamomile, passing it on to D'Artagnan to crush into the lavender oil.

Corporal Durand entered and put another pot to the hook in the hearth, this time a rich broth accompanied by thick brown bread. Aramis knew the broth was for Porthos. He would need to start eating soon, but having gone so long with so little food, he would not be able to handle much yet. He wondered again if they should wake him, but his friend's growing restlessness told Aramis he would be waking on his own soon enough. Leaving D'Artagnan and Farhad to finish, Aramis moved to the stool by Porthos's bedside, sitting heavily as his body reminded him of his own healing wounds.

Master Farhad had removed the moist dressings over the gashes in Porthos's chest and applied more salve, leaving them open to fresh air as he had with Aramis's back. Farhad had said everything was healing well, but Aramis could not help himself but check again, looking for signs of reddened flesh or oozing from the wounds. But the healer was right, nothing was there to give him cause for worry. The poultice over the brand was still in place, secured with bandages wrapped over Porthos's shoulder. Aramis did not want to disturb it, but he placed his hand gently over the wrappings to feel the cool, dampness still clinging to the cloths beneath. Master Farhad said that moisture was key in the healing so that the scars in the flesh would smooth out and be less pronounced. Aramis let his hand linger, wishing with all his heart that he could do something to take this mark from Porthos's body.

The big man moved beneath his hand, a small groan escaping from his lips as he shifted uncomfortably on the bed. Aramis moved his hand to Porthos's shoulder, clasping it lightly as he encouraged him to wake up. Porthos groaned again, his eyes fluttering beneath his lids as he struggled to raise them.

"That's it, _mon ami_ " Aramis encouraged, "Enough sleeping."

"Aramis," the words were gruff, slurred with sleep, " 'Course I wake up to you pestering me." Aramis felt relief wash over him and his face broke into a big grin lost to Porthos, who still had his eyes scrunched closed.

"Come on, sit up," Aramis answered, giving Porthos's shoulder another small shake.

Porthos finally opened his eyes enough to give Aramis a displeased stare as he exhaled his annoyance. Aramis met his stare with a raised brow and a look that fully expected his compliance. He slipped his hand behind Porthos's neck and reached out with his other hand to take the big man's arm.

"Sit up," Aramis insisted, "You need to eat." Porthos gave no comment but a grunt, but let Aramis help him to shift forward. As Aramis helped to support him, he was happy to see D'Artagnan appear at Porthos's other side, taking his arm and pressing a hand gently to his back. Porthos gave a slight turn of his head at D'Artagnan's grip, narrowing his gaze again.

"You too?" the big man muttered.

"Getting someone your size up in bed takes two," D'Artagnan teased.

Aramis pressed his lips together, not wanting to say anything to contradict D'Artagnan, but although Porthos had lost some weight during his ordeal his size was not really the issue. It was his frailty. Aramis could tell by the tremor in Porthos's hand as he had helped him to sit up that his friend was lacking strength in his limbs. Aramis fought to keep his anger at bay as he and D'Artagnan helped Porthos to settle back against the wall, some pillows positioned behind him to keep him comfortable. So much had been taken from his friend, so very much.

"How do you feel?" Aramis asked while D'Artagnan went to retrieve some food and a bottle of wine. Porthos shifted his gaze from Aramis before he answered, something unreadable passing over his face.

"Tired," was all Porthos would say, but Aramis could see a dark sadness in his eyes that said there was so much more.

"Are you in pain?" Aramis prompted, searching for more of an answer.

"Nothing I can't manage," Porthos's voice was heavy and rough and still he would not meet Aramis's eyes.

"You don't have to manage, _mon ami_ ," Aramis said softly, "Let me help you." Porthos clenched his jaw, working to hold back some emotion that he would not share with Aramis. Aramis saw the tears that filled his eyes, but Porthos just gave a tight-lipped shake of his head – no, he would not ask for help. While they could all be stoic, Porthos's silent denial of Aramis's offer of care was distressing. Aramis leaned in, placing a hand on Porthos arm, voice pitched low so no one else would hear, "What is it?"

But Porthos remained motionless and silent, eyes fixed intently on the open window, the only acknowledgment that Aramis had spoken was another small shake of his head. Aramis inhaled and bit his lip. Getting angry and demanding a response was not going to help but that was just what he felt like doing.

D'Artagnan returned with a cup of wine and a bowl of broth, standing uncertainly behind Aramis. While he had not heard their exchange, Aramis was sure that D'Artagnan could sense that something was not right between them. "Thank you," he said, reaching up to take the bowl and cup from D'Artagnan's hands, "Why don't you help Master Farhad finish with the poultice. We'll need to change that soon."

"Don't bother," Porthos said darkly, "It doesn't matter."

D'Artagnan looked about to protest, but Aramis gave him a small shake of the head and a sympathetic look. Best to do was let it be. D'Artagnan gave a small sigh and a nod of the head, understanding Aramis's silent plea, but the slump of his shoulders as he walked back to the table let Aramis know Porthos's rejection had stung the lad. The bitter words had a sharp bite and Aramis knew they weren't just meant for D'Artagnan.

"Our Gascon has watched over you for two days now," Aramis said, handing the bowl of broth to Porthos, "Ever since he pulled you from that burning warehouse. You don't need to be grateful, but don't tell him that his efforts had no meaning." Aramis was measured in his words but felt he could not simply ignore Porthos's statement. Porthos, however, seemed he could ignore Aramis. He held the bowl on his lap, staring at it as if his response was lost in the bottom.

"What's in here?" Porthos asked, eyes finally shifting to Aramis in accusation.

"Broth," Aramis said, trying to keep the weariness from his voice, "Nothing more." Porthos continued to hold his gaze as if looking for the lie behind Aramis's words. Aramis could not help but feel a deep sadness at Porthos being so distrustful of his friends, and a deepening anger at Celeste de Varade for putting him in this state. At some point, he was going to get the full story from Porthos. That he promised himself.

Porthos must have been satisfied with whatever he saw in Aramis's eyes as he finally gave a small nod of acknowledgment and moved to get his fingers around the spoon in the bowl. As he tried to raise the spoon to his lips, his hand began to tremble, shaking the warm liquid back into the bowl. Without thinking, Aramis reached to steady Porthos's hand only to have the big man flinch and jerk his hand away, the spoon dropping to the floor.

"Leave me be!" Porthos shouted, "I'm not your pet to feed and preen over!" Porthos was enraged, glaring at Aramis as if he had just burned him with his touch. Aramis took in the words like a slap across the face, but stayed quietly seated on the stool biting back a stinging retort. Porthos was not well, not thinking clearly, or he would never say these things to D'Artagnan or to him. Aramis himself just last night had sad hurtful things to Athos out of a reaction to his own suffering. Aramis took a deep breath and reined in his emotions, Porthos was still injured and this was his pain speaking, not his heart.

"Of course," Aramis said quietly "I would never think anything else." He sat still, watching Porthos regain his composure. Then his friend took up the bowl of broth in both hands, carefully bringing it up to his mouth so he could drink from the bowl as if it were a cup. Porthos sipped at it diligently and was at least able to finish it. When he was done he lowered the bowl back to his lap with shaking hands.

"Thank you," Porthos said quietly, his emotions locked back in place. Aramis took his friend's statement graciously, knowing it was his way of making peace between them.

"May I?" Aramis asked, indicating the bowl in his hands. Porthos nodded and Aramis reached out to take up the empty dish. "Do you want anymore?" he asked.

"No, I can't . . . " Pothos trailed off, not finishing his thought, but laying a hand over his stomach. Aramis knew that even broth was probably unsettling having gone hungry for so long. Aramis gave him a small smile and a nod and placed the empty bowl on the bedside table.

"I want to see it," Porthos said, staring out toward the window again. Aramis was about to ask what he wanted to see, but then realized Porthos could only mean one thing. He was uncertain how to respond, but then Master Farhad settled on the stool next to him, a pot of ointment and a stack of bandages in his hands.

"I will share the wound with you as I clean and rebandage it if I may," the healer said calmly. Porthos looked at the man beside Aramis with suspicion.

"Do you remember Master Farhad from yesterday?" Aramis asked, remembering that Porthos had still been confused about where he was and what was happening when they had cared for his injuries, "He is the physician who helped tend you. All of us I should say. He cared for all of our injuries," Aramis added, hoping the statement would help ease Porthos's mind. Porthos's brow furrowed as he searched for his memories.

"I remember yesterday," he finally said, "You and Aramis. You stitched me up. In the smoke."

"Yes, in the smoke," Master Farhad said with a respectful nod, "How do you fare this day?"

"I'm fine," Porthos mumbled, shifting his gaze again to the window.

"Here then is what I might propose to you, Master Porthos," Farhad said, "Let me first clean and rebandage the mark on your chest, then I must beg you to allow me to see to your back." Porthos visibly stiffened at the healer's words, clearly not wanting to go through another ordeal.

"No more sewing," Porthos nearly growled. Aramis frowned, wondering if Porthos would still let them care for him without the remnants of the laudanum in his bloodstream and the mind-easing influence of the mugwort smoke. The big man was so closed off and mistrustful of them in a way he had never experienced before. Even in the very earliest days of Porthos's time as a musketeer, he had never had such an impenetrable wall between himself and the other men of the garrison, let alone those he had started to call friend.

"I give you my word, there will be no more sutures, but the threads already woven in your back must come out," Master Farhad was gentle, but his tone firm. Aramis saw Porthos cringe at the thought, starting to shake his head to argue but Master Farhad pressed on, "The stitches must be pulled before the scars form with brutality. Please, it is my honor and duty to serve you in this," Master Farhad added, bowing his head and pressing his hands together beneath his heart.

"Porthos, please," Aramis pleaded, knowing the consequences of his friend's refusal would be rough and ugly marks on his back that he would have to bear for the rest of his life. Celeste's handiwork was cruel but carefully done. Without her continuous cutting and stitching like she had done with Marie-Claire, the lines would be smooth and most would fade over time. But not if the sutures were left in too long and skin began to roughen around them. Aramis had seen the evidence of this in many soldiers with battlefield injuries. He did not want Porthos to have to bear for his entire life something that could have been preventable.

"And if I say no," Porthos said bitterly, "Will you just force me?" The question was to Master Farhad, but Aramis knew it was meant for him. Of course, he would do everything in his power to ensure Porthos received proper care, but force him? Aramis was not prepared to answer that. Luckily Farhad was.

"It is your body, Master Porthos, and you shall always retain sovereignty over it even when my hands do their work," Farhad said sincerely, "Can we agree to this?" Porthos inhaled and considered, then shook his head, yes, he would allow it. The tension seemed to release from his body then and he let himself relax into the pillows at his back. Aramis gave him a smile, then offered him the cup of wine D'Artagnan had brought earlier. Porthos took it with a grateful nod but Aramis caught the worry still resident in his eyes.

"Shall I assist Master Farhad?" Aramis asked, prepared for the answer to be no but wanting Porthos to know that he was ready to stand by him, as he always had. To his surprise, Porthos gave him a small smile.

"Yeah," he said, "You keep an eye on that doctor," but the look Porthos gave him had nothing to do with worry about Farhad and everything about the trust he held for Aramis. Porthos reached out his hand and Aramis clasped his forearm, a reassuring grip that he knew meant something deep to both of them. Porthos settled back again, letting Master Farhad get to work on the bandages wrapped over the poultice.

Porthos kept his eyes averted as Farhad pulled off the soiled cloths and gently wiped away the herb mixture spread over his skin. D'Artagnan had joined them around the bed again, refilling Porthos's wine cup and offering Aramis some willow bark tea, knowing from his own recent experience that Aramis was not past the headaches yet.

"This is healing well," Farhad proclaimed as he wiped the last of the salve from the wound, "If we keep it moist and well-treated, it will smooth out."

Porthos handed the wine cup to D'Artagnan and took a deep breath. Aramis knew he was steeling himself for his first unimpeded view of the mark he would carry for the rest of his life. Aramis put a hand to Porthos's shoulder, reminding his friend he was not alone in this. He saw Porthos glance up at D'Artagnan. The young Gascon looked serious but strong and gave Porthos an encouraging nod. Porthos turned his head, taking in the angry flesh that would permanently imprint on his left breast.

The brand was healing and was not as raw as when Aramis had first seen it. It still flared red Aramis was sure it still was extremely painful The fire in the flesh would dissipate, but the mark would linger for the rest of Porthos's life. It was impossible to know what Porthos was thinking as he contemplated the mark. He raised his right hand to let a finger lightly touch it. He winced, but nonetheless traced his finger along the edge of the mark, outlining the shape as if getting to know it.

"This will always be here," Porthos said, his fingers moving over the brand, "it will never leave me?"

"Proper care now and time will let it smooth out and blend into your skin," Master Farhad said softly, "but yes, friend Porthos, that mark will be with you for as long as you walk this earth."

Porthos pushed his lips together, his jaw clenched tightly. He breathed heavily and a tear tracked down his cheek. Aramis wanted to reach out to him, to take his hand from the ugly mark, to wipe the tear from Porthos's cheek, but he held back. Porthos deserved their respect and support, not their pity. He knew his gesture would be an insult, just as his offer to help with the spoon had been perceived. No, Aramis would need to let Porthos work through this and when he was ready, he would be there to pick up the pieces – if his brother would let him.

"Cover it up," Porthos finally spit out between gritted teeth, his face a mask of iron-willed determination. He raised his hand to his eyes and wiped away the unshed tears as Master Farhad re-applied the poultice. Farhad worked quickly and then left Aramis to reapply the bandage while he gathered his small scissors from his surgical kit. Porthos lay still through the entire process, eyes fixed ahead, looking at nothing. Aramis finished, but Porthos did not acknowledge him. Aramis looked up at D'Artagnan, still standing over Porthos at the other side of the bed. He looked stricken and lost, clearly unsure of what he could say or do in this situation. Aramis tried to find a reassuring smile for him but knew there was nothing he could offer that would dispel the deep sadness they were both feeling on behalf of their friend. Porthos was forever marked, but how that would change him was something neither of them could begin to understand yet.

"Do you need some respite, Master Porthos," Farhad asked sincerely, "Or may I now work to undo the rest of the wrongs committed upon your flesh?" Aramis thought Porthos would ask them to wait, but instead, he struggled to sit up from where he was leaning against the pillows. Aramis reached out automatically, gripping Porthos by the hand and arm to help him. He half expected another outburst, but his gesture was simply accepted. Aramis helped Porthos to sit up, then pulled the blankets away from his legs so he could swing his feet to the floor. Porthos rested his arms on his knees and clasped his hands, head bowed. He waited.

D'Artagnan stepped away to let Master Farhad take his place on the other side of the bed. Farhad caught Aramis's eye as he bent over to examine the lines of suturing healing over Porthos's body. The healer's face was calm but his eyes showed deep sorrow. It would be as painful for Farhad to do this as it would have been for Aramis. Aramis would have willingly, but after all that had happened in the last two days, it was he who was grateful for the respite.

"With your permission, Master Porthos, all of these will come out," Farhad said, glancing up at Aramis. Aramis knew he was looking for permission from him as well, and he nodded, the healer having earned his trust many times over already. "There are many," Farhad cautioned, "So you must tell me if you need me to stop. It should not hurt, except for the few that are newer. But the wounds will close without them. I would not leave this devil's work upon your body a minute longer. Will you agree to this?"

Porthos nodded, still not raising his head or releasing his clasped hands. It was such a posture of submission that Aramis found himself again troubled at his friend's behavior. Neither this forced surrender nor the bitter rejection of his friend's aid from earlier were anything that Aramis had experienced with Porthos before. Any hope that Aramis had held that Porthos's recovery would begin as his physical wounds healed dissipated in the wake of the tortured man before him. Aramis had no idea what to do but realized the outbursts of this morning were only the beginning of a long road.

Porthos remained motionless, D'Artagnan and Aramis holding their positions, while Farhad began to work. The room was silent save for the sigh of the sea from outside the open windows and the quiet snip of Farhad's scissors as he cut the threads and gently pulled them through Porthos's healing skin. Aramis knew from experience it did not hurt, but D'Artagnan looked dubious as he watched Farhad work. This was how Athos found them when he came back to the infirmary shortly after the noon bell.


	24. Chapter 24

_A/N: Apologies for the delays in posting just struggling with my schedule and finding the time to keep up with the writing. Don't worry - there will be an end to this story ... I promise not to leave it hanging :) Thank you for the encouraging PMs and kind reviews. I try to answer everyone and if you were missed, know that it is not intentional. I especially appreciate the guests :) Nothing would be possible without the help of Issai who makes everything in this story better my gratitude is always with her. I don't own this interpretation of the characters, just the mistakes I make in writing about them :)_

* * *

Athos paused in the doorway, taking in the hushed tableau of his men, his closest friends, and knew immediately that something wasn't right. The sunny day outside the windows was a sharp contrast to the sober mood in the room. Porthos sat on the edge of the bed, bare-chested and hunched over, elbows resting on his knees and still as a statue while the somber-faced physician worked silently behind him. D'Artagnan stood beside the physician, eyes wide and face grim as he watched whatever gruesome work was happening at Porthos's back, his hand unconsciously clenched where his rapier hilt would be. Aramis had his back to Athos, seated on a stool before Porthos. Even from across the room Athos could see the tension in the marksman's posture was more than just discomfort from his injuries. But the overwhelming feeling of wrongness wasn't from their stillness, it was their silence.

Except in the gravest of circumstances, often in spite of them, their usual way through a tense situation was to joke and tease, bicker and prod – venting emotions, offering support and establishing normalcy even as someone was digging a musket ball from someone's thigh or forcing a bitter drink upon an unwilling patient. The silence in the room was ominous and oppressive, lacking even the subdued conversation that they had managed yesterday when first tending to Porthos's injuries. Athos had expected the situation to slowly improve, had anticipated Porthos's grumbling and Aramis's chiding as signs that everything was on the path to being set right.

As Athos moved into the room he caught D'Artagnan's eye. With a tip of his head and an arched brow Athos invited D'Artagnan to join him at the table by the hearth. The Gascon gave a minute nod in response and glanced at Aramis before shifting away from the doctor to circle around the cot. Athos took up a bottle of wine and two cups from the table. D'Artagnan seemed uneasy as he quietly pulled up a chair, giving Athos a grateful smile as he took the offered wine.

"How is Porthos?" Athos asked, voice pitched low.

"Rough," D'Artagnan replied, "Master Farhad says the wounds are healing well, but Porthos doesn't seem to care. He's angry," Athos could hear the frustration in D'Artagnan's voice, "He is resentful of our help but clearly needs it."

"His back?" Athos asked with worry, concerned as to what the physician was at to make the mood so bleak.

"Removing the stitching. It's fine," D'Artagnan reassured him.

"And Aramis?" Athos questioned, gazing again at the marksman wondering what else could be wrong.

"Tired still," D'Artagnan reported, "Head is bothering him. I think his ribs ache, but he won't say."

"Then what?" Athos prompted, his gaze returning to the troubled Gascon. D'Artagnan looked into the cup in his hands as uncertainty blossomed across his face.

"Porthos is here, with us. He's had worse injuries and survived them. Varade at least is dead," D'Artagnan paused to look at Athos, "What else are we supposed to do?"

Athos cocked his head and gave D'Artagnan a soft smile, "Nothing yet. We wait. Wounds of the mind are much like those of the body – you treat them with what you have available and then wait and see how they heal, change the bandages, fight infection, provide comfort. It is the same."

"How though?" D'Artagnan's frustration was clear, "He barely let us change the poultice this morning. Seeing the brand made him angry. How do we fix this?" The look D'Artagnan gave Athos was almost a plea.

Athos gave a soft exhale and gazed back at his two oldest friends. They had suffered through much together yet they never gave much thought about fixing each other beyond sutures, splints and bandages - they just were. They healed, got stronger, got better and carried on. Someone fed you soup when you were too weak to lift the spoon or brought you wine when you were too heartbroken to leave your rooms. Each of them had broken parts that nothing could fix – Athos thought of his memories of Anne that were never far from him, knowing that his life was not one of fixing but existing. Aramis had been broken at Savoy, Porthos had come to them broken from the Court of Miracles. And even if D'Artagnan didn't recognize it yet, the murder of his father would leave something forever shifted in his heart. Broken places – they were all made of them. But together, in some impossible and unpredictable way, they were whole. No, there was no fixing, but there was living.

It would break D'Artagnan's heart should Athos tell him this, crack open the secret of _Les Inseparables_ to reveal three men broken beyond repair clinging to their humanity by holding fast to each other. D'Artagnan's seemingly easy admission to their brotherhood was not predicated on his passion, his skill with a sword, his unwavering determination – they recognized in the devastated angry young man ready to fight with all of them at once the same cataclysmic, unbreachable wounds they all carried. They first recognized him as a brother by the scars on his heart.

Athos was spared having to give D'Artagnan any answer as it appeared the physician had finished his work. Athos gave D'Artagnan a nod toward the other men to indicate his intention and then he rose, D'Artagnan following, to join Aramis at Porthos's bedside. Master Farhad gave him a nod in greeting as he moved toward the wash basin and Athos noted that although his face gave a reassuring smile his eyes had a sadness that he often saw in Aramis after their self-appointed medic had done more of the physician's work than his heart could bear.

Porthos remained motionless, still leaning over his knees, head bowed as if none of them were there. Aramis glanced up at Athos, and Athos saw the weariness etched in his face and a hollowness in his eyes. Whatever had happened, Aramis too was as troubled as D'Artagnan.

Athos dropped a hand to Aramis's shoulder, "Get something to eat, have Farhad change your dressings," Athos said in a low voice, recognizing that the marksman was on a thin edge, "I'll take care of this," he added with a nod to Porthos. Aramis looked as if he might protest but then he closed his eyes and gave a slow exhale and a small nod of agreement. Aramis seemed to know the moments when arguing with Athos would be futile. Or maybe Aramis was just that tired to not have the energy to try. Athos shifted his grip from Aramis's shoulder to extend him a hand. The marksman took it readily, giving Athos some of his weight as he leveraged himself up from the stool. Athos noted the stiffness and the catch of breath as Aramis's abused back and side reminded the marksman that he was not whole himself. D'Artagnan had instinctively slipped a hand around Aramis's arm as he had started to rise and Athos again felt his heart warm at the easy way D'Artagnan had melded into their threesome.

"He needs to eat," Aramis said quietly.

"I've got it," Athos answered giving a flick of his head to let Aramis and D'Artagnan know to give him some space. Athos wanted to see for himself how Porthos fared and Aramis clearly needed a break. D'Artagnan with his endless need to do something would be better off with a project that might bring him more satisfaction. As the two men moved toward the table, Athos caught D'Artagnan's arm, causing the young man to pause and turn to him, "Get Aramis something for his head," he said, giving D'Artagnan a knowing look, "and see if you can get him to lie down." D'Artagnan smiled in agreement and Athos knew he was all the better just by being given some responsibility by Athos.

Athos replaced Aramis on the stool he had been occupying. Porthos did not move and Athos wondered if he had fallen asleep hunched over on the edge of the bed. He reached out and gently put a hand on his friend's shoulder, feeling the big man tense at his touch. Not sleeping then.

"How are you?" Athos asked, dipping his head to try and see Porthos's face. Porthos sighed and then looked up, his lips pressed together and his jaw clenched fighting with himself to keep his mouth closed. Athos saw sadness and resignation in his eyes, but his struggle to keep his emotions in check also hinted at determination. His large brown eyes were damp but no tears fell. Porthos was an enigma to him in this moment – both incredibly vulnerable and possessed of a deep strength at the same time. Athos also realized he had asked a foolish question. How could Porthos even begin to answer that?

"Could you manage some broth?" Athos asked instead of waiting for an impossible answer to his first question. Porthos shrugged and hung his head. Athos frowned at the bowed head before him. The silent submission was so unnatural. He was beginning to understand what was troubling Aramis and D'Artagnan. Athos gave Porthos's shoulder a squeeze, hoping the man would take some solace from physical comfort if he was not willing in any other way. D'Artagnan appeared quietly at his side, a mug in his hand. Athos took it and D'Artagnan ghosted away again.

"Here," he said, giving another squeeze to Porthos's shoulder. Porthos seemed to recognize something was required of him and he raised his head to find the cup held before him. Athos immediately noticed the shake in his hands and felt the tremor in Porthos's shoulder as he reached out for the cup. The weakness was startling, but Athos reminded himself it was to be expected. Porthos got his hands around the mug, but Athos was loath to let go. The big man stared into the cup again, as he had done the day before with the wine. "There is nothing in it," Athos reassured him. Porthos nodded and shakily raised the cup to his lips. It took him three tries, but he managed to finish everything in the cup.

"More?" Athos queried, searching Porthos's face for more clues regarding his mood. Porthos pursed his lips and shook his head, revealing nothing beyond the sadness and resignation Athos had noted before. Athos slid the cup from Porthos's hands and set it on the bedside table. Then he straightened on the stool, clasped his hands and waited, hoping Porthos might take the opportunity to say something. But Porthos turned his head away as he tried to stretch his shoulders. He was clearly uncomfortable, shifting one arm to gently wrap across his bandaged chest.

"You are in pain," Athos said sympathetically.

"It's fine," Porthos's tone was flat, "Been worse."

"You do not have to suffer," Athos said quietly, leaning in closer to Porthos, "What keeps you from letting us help you?" Porthos's face clouded over with a rush of emotions. Sadness, fear, anger all played across his face and Athos knew he was struggling to manage his feelings, to find words, to not lose control. It would have been alright if he did – tears, pain, anger were not strangers to any of them but Porthos seemed determined to keep his thoughts shuttered.

Athos narrowed his eyes as he settled on a new tactic. "Master Farhad will give you something for the pain," he said, his voice laced with the tones of command and loud enough for the other men in the room to hear him. A flash of anger skittered across Porthos's face at the order but he didn't contradict him.

"Do what you want," Porthos's response held challenge despite the submissive statement, "It doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters," Athos said matter-of-factly.

"Not to me," Porthos's response was quiet but his eyes revealed a dark anger that Athos had never witnessed in their normally warm and open-hearted friend.

"None of us would see you needlessly suffer," Athos countered coolly, "Why would you inflict that upon yourself?" Athos could see the emotions rising in his friend. He shifted on the stool, clasping his hands and holding them loosely as his arms relaxed at his side. Athos knew from experience that Porthos deeply resented his feelings being met with Athos's structured, disciplined emotional distance. It was another little push and Porthos was already on the brink.

"There is nothin' that physician is gonna give me that will take this away," Porthos said with a tight jaw, gesturing to the bandage on his chest "Nothin'. I don't care if hurts. I don't care what happens to me. My life ended the minute that bastard marked me."

"It is a wound like any other," Athos said calmly, "It will heal and you will overcome it."

"Overcome it!" Porthos's voice was raised, his fists clenched, "Easy for the _Comte de la Fere_. You are protected, rich, privileged. No one would dare touch you," Porthos voice dripped with derision and disgust, "I'm a dark-skinned man from the slums of Paris with the mark of slavery on my chest. There is nothin' to overcome. I'm finished!" Porthos's words were full of bitterness but his eyes were full of tears. His breathing became heavy as he fought for emotional control and two big tears rolled down his cheeks.

Porthos tried to push himself up from the bed, but he was weak still and his legs began to buckle even before he was fully upright. Athos stood and caught Porthos by the arms, steadying the big man as a wave of pain caused him to groan and he swayed on his feet. Porthos grabbed hold of him tightly, stumbling against Athos and slumping forward, head landing on his shoulder. Whether it was for physical support or emotional Athos could not tell, but he stood strong and let Porthos support himself against his body. Athos shifted one hand and placed it on the back of his friend's neck, holding tight as Porthos shuddered against him, a few quiet sobs interspersed with Porthos's labored breaths. In a few quick moments, Porthos quieted and Athos felt the tension slipping from his friend's body, suddenly receiving more of the big man's weight.

"Whoa," Athos breathed as he stumbled back a step to hold their balance. Another pair of hands was there immediately, relieving some of the burden. Aramis, of course, had been hovering and Athos spotted D'Artagnan on the other side of the cot, gesturing toward them to help ease Porthos back to the bed. Porthos didn't resist as he and Aramis shifted him closer to the cot and gently maneuvered him to sit. D'Artagnan caught his shoulders and steadied him as Master Farhad appeared with a cup in his hand. Porthos's eyes were closed, his body almost limp. Farhad pressed the cup to his lips and guided his head back and Porthos drank whatever was in it without protest. Farhad glanced up at Aramis and they exchanged a look, then moved aside as Aramis shifted Porthos to lie on the bed. D'Artagnan eased his upper body down and Aramis swung his legs up onto the cot. Athos stepped away, letting the other two assist Porthos to roll onto his side. He curled away from them and faced the wall of windows with their view of the sea. Aramis gently draped a soft blanket over their friend's lower body, leaving his chest and back exposed to fresh air.

The stitches removed, Porthos's back was nonetheless like a canvas traced with lines and patterns, some still red and angry, others a duller pink as they were the most healed. It was overwhelming. Athos made his way wearily back to the table by the hearth where they had been sharing their meals and sat heavily in a chair. He took up a bottle of wine and poured himself a heavy measure as D'Artagnan and Aramis joined him, taking up seats on the other side of the table. Athos silently passed them the bottle and took a long, deep drink from his cup. Porthos was right. How did anyone overcome this?

* * *

D'Artagnan slumped in his chair, feeling weary and defeated even though he was not among the injured. Well, he was, if he counted the bruised ribs that were still healing. But he didn't. And he certainly wasn't going to remind Aramis about it. He'd remembered to put some salve on it each morning and night and the purple bruises had faded to dull yellows. He was mending. He would be fine. But he wasn't sure now that the others ever would be.

His mood had grown bleak as the day progressed. He had expected a quiet day in the infirmary going about the busy work of mixing poultices, changing bandages, assisting Porthos with whatever he needed but Porthos's rejection of their attempts to help him and Aramis's somber mood had contrived to take any solace or peace from the day. Even Master Farhad had seemed subdued and the scene he had just witnessed between Athos and Porthos had shaken his faith in the power of their brotherhood. If Athos could not comfort Porthos, how was he supposed to make any difference?

Corporal Durand had brought up a tray of cold fish, cheese and bread and D'Artagnan absently picked at it as he tried to settle himself. Despair wasn't really in his nature and he felt uncomfortable dwelling on dark thoughts that had no resolution no matter how deeply he pursued them. There had to be something he could do to make things better. It couldn't just be hopeless.

Master Farhad joined them at the table, taking up the fourth seat and helping himself to some food while Aramis poured him a cup of wine. They ate in silence for a while, everyone seemingly as lost in their own thoughts as D'Artagnan was.

"Captain Demont has assigned us a small barracks room above the infirmary," Athos said, putting down his wine glass and reaching for the bottle, "Are we able to move Porthos?" he asked Farhad.

"As long as he remains under your watchful eyes, Master Porthos may be any place where you feel he can be made comfortable," Farhad answered, "I would like to continue to see him twice daily to ensure he continues to mend."

"Of course," Athos said, "Your services will be needed in the infirmary as well. The Captain has made arrangements for more of the victims of the Varades to be brought here this evening."

"Yes, Master Aramis has explained this to me," Farhad said nodding, "He and I shall together oversee the wellbeing of the women from that place. I will be glad of the assistance," he added with a smile to Aramis, "as tending these deep injuries requires patience that I do not always possess."

"Patience is hardly one of Aramis's virtues," Athos said, a slight smile ghosting across his lips.

"I am the picture of patience," Aramis said with mock affront, putting a hand to his heart.

"We'll see how that goes," D'Artagnan said under his breath, although not so quietly that it didn't earn him a playful cuff from Aramis.

"Fine then," Athos said, interrupting what could easily escalate to more serious roughhousing between the two musketeers, "We will move Porthos to our quarters this afternoon and prepare the infirmary to receive more patients."

"I will need supplies," Farhad said, "Some are at my home but others we must purchase from the market. More herbs and medicines as well as bandages."

"Make a list, D'Artagnan will go," Athos directed. D'Artagnan considered protesting but getting out of the garrison for a while and away from all the tension would be the best thing for his mood. He nodded his consent and attacked his food with a little bit more gusto. Time away from the infirmary, even to run errands, was something to look forward to.

"I can see to getting Porthos settled," Aramis offered.

"Yes, and get our gear settled too. Demont says it is a small barracks that they use for officers when naval ships are in port. There is a common room and some bedrooms. It should have everything we need," Athos explained, "And then get some rest."

D'Artagnan thought Aramis was going to put up a fight, but before he could say more, Athos raised a hand and gave a look that asked for no arguments.

"Captain Demont will allow us to join the raid tonight but I will not do so if I feel you are not capable of defending yourself or others due to your injuries," Athos's voice was stern and although Aramis looked as if he wanted to protest he chose instead to nod in agreement, "Get Porthos settled, get some rest, take more medicine." D'Artagnan looked sheepishly down at his plate, glad to not be on the receiving end of Athos's attention.

"Master Farhad," Athos said, his tone lightening, "I'll expect to hear from you if Aramis does not comply."

Farhad gave Athos a warm smile, "Master Aramis has been a model patient up until this point and I expect he will continue to heed my instructions."

"Someday you will need to share your secret to that," Athos said as he stood, repositioning his hat on his head. Even Aramis smirked.

Athos fished in his doublet and pulled out a cloth purse which he tossed to D'Artagnan, "That should cover any expenses for the medical supplies. I'm going to report to Demont and work out our duty rotations for the next two weeks. Let's get started, gentlemen," he said, as he walked toward the door. "And D'Artagnan," Athos paused in the doorway and turned, "Try to stay out of trouble."

D'Artagnan tried to muster an appropriate response but by then Athos was gone, leaving Aramis and Farhad to chuckle at his discomfiture.

* * *

D'Artagnan's prior visits to _Le Havre_ had been brief and limited. The first they had spent the better part of a day stalking the berth where Emile Bonnaire's ship was expected to dock and in the tavern where they had apprehended in him. The second trip was even shorter – a dark night dealing with the Spaniards and the Port Master to arrange for Bonnaire's disappearance. Despite his worries about Porthos, D'Artagnan was eager to explore more of the port city as he ran errands for Master Farhad.

The smell of the sea air permeated the streets and the light taste of salt on his skin continued to tease him to lick his lips as he wandered along the docks. Master Farhad had given him detailed instructions about which merchants to visit and where to find them, but D'Artagnan didn't see the harm in taking his time as he walked along the busy wharf. It was fascinating. He was used to the bustling markets of Paris now, a far cry from the sleepy town square in the village of Lupiac where he had grown up. But the riot of color, sounds and smells in _Le Havre_ made Paris seem tame in comparison.

He saw men and women both wearing unusual garments of brightly colored cloth wrapped in great swatches as skirts or shawls. Women with elaborate headdresses carried boxes on their heads. Thickly muscled men, chests bare to the sun, hauled the great ropes that tethered the ships to port. There were nobles in fine brocade attending the arrival of their ships from the exotic ports of New France while barefoot sailors walked the rigging, patching sails and replacing hemp rope. He heard languages he did not understand or French spoken with unidentifiable accents. There were smells of grilled meat and fried cheese along with a variety of vegetables and fruits he had never seen. Some children chased a goat down a busy street, past a grey-haired woman selling bits of seashells strung on silk ribbons.

Despite a variety of exotic offerings, D'Artagnan stopped to purchase an ordinary Spanish plum from a fruit stand along the wharf. As he dug in his pockets to find a copper coin, the pretty fruit seller offered him a bright smile that he couldn't help but return. As he reached out to place the payment in her upturned palm, D'Artagnan paused. The brown skin of her forearm was marked with a pattern of white lines blossoming around the limb. The white marks were intricate and detailed – flowers, birds and spirals trailing up her arm and disappearing up her sleeve. The young woman cleared her throat and D'Artagnan realized he was staring. He felt the blush rise to his cheeks as he hurriedly put the coin in her hand.

"Apologies, Mademoiselle," he stammered, "But the markings on your arm. That must have been painful," D'Artagnan blurted out before he could stop himself from making so intimate a statement to a complete stranger. The young woman gave him an appraising eye and although D'Artagnan was about to retreat and leave her in peace she surprisingly gave him a playful smile and chose to respond.

"It hurt for a short time, a long while ago," she said, her voice thick with an accent he had never heard before, "But now it is just part of me." She pushed up her sleeve to reveal the lines and swirls continued all the way up. She extended her arm and gave D'Artagnan a little nod of encouragement. He took her hand in his, then lightly placed a finger on the outline of a flower. It was slightly raised but otherwise seemed completely fused into her flesh.

"Who did this?" he asked her, fascinated by the markings and the smooth, warm skin beneath his fingers that she so trustingly presented to him.

"My grandfather," she answered, "He began on my 12th birthday."

"How could anyone do this to a young girl?" D'Artagnan asked, shocked that a child would be forced to endure the painful process to put the markings into her skin. He thought of the agony Porthos had suffered in just six days. How many months to set these patterns in skin? He felt his temper growing.

She must have sensed the change in his mood for she slipped her arm from his hands. "These are the markings of my tribe," she said with an indignant tone, "They say I belong to the clan and anyone who sees me knows I am a Shaman's daughter."

He wasn't sure what a Shaman was but assumed it must be something of importance to her as she seemed proud to say it. But that she was marked by a clan, that was disturbing to him. "Are you their property?" D'Artagnan asked bluntly, having already let his curiosity get the better of his sense of propriety it didn't dawn on him to consider he was asking a very personal question.

The woman shook her head with a tsk, "Always the Frenchman thinking markings mean ownership. You bear markings. Do the people who put that on you own you?" she challenged, pointing at his pauldron. "I am a free woman," she continued, "This is my fruit stand, with my brothers and father. We came on a ship from _Martinique_ as you call it but we are free people – not slaves. I belong to my clan, my tribe. They are part of me and I am part of them. Is this so hard to understand?" she huffed, now aggravated by his questions.

D'Artagnan gave her a sheepish smile, "No, not so hard to understand, Mademoiselle," he said, putting his hand to his heart and giving a small, apologetic bow that would have made Aramis proud. He gazed up at her, flashing her a look that was known to melt the heart of even the fiery Constance Bonacieux, "I assumed that to have taken a blade to a young girl you must have been . . ." he trailed off as she huffed and gave a dismissive laugh.

"You are a baby," she chided, referring to his naivety as he estimated that they must be of nearly the same age, "No one cut me! This is _un tatouage blanc._ White ink." D'Artagnan had of course seen tattoos before but none that looked like that. It looked much like scars to him – the slightly raised flesh, the pale lines against dark skin. He wished now he could take her arm again and examine it more closely but the glare from her let him know she was not likely to be indulgent a second time. A good musketeer knew when it was time to retreat.

"Thank you for the instruction," he said, giving her another small bow, "and the plum." He took a healthy bite of the ripe fruit and made his way back into the crowd.

As D'Artagnan wended his way to the herb vendor that Master Farhad had indicated, his mind remained fixed on the pretty young woman with the marked arm. Her tattoos were strange to him but also had an eerie beauty he decided. They were mysterious and delicate markings and the contrast of the pale lines against her dark skin striking. The tattoos he had seen before were generally crude signs that marked the hand of a thief caught by the magistrate or sometimes the symbol of the regiment a soldier had fought in. He had never thought anything about how tattoos communicated before, had just taken for granted the symbols and signs he recognized. But someone had chosen that sign, to place a message on their body that said something of their family, their history, the people they belonged with. Or had been given a sign, in the case of criminals, to serve as warning to others about their past.

There was a similarity between the carvings on Porthos's back and those of the woman. Some of the swirls and designs that marked his friend seemed like a rough and brutal version of the graceful lines that she had claimed as the markings of her clan. It must have been painful for a girl of 12 to sit through the process of tattooing yet her memories of it did not seem to dampen her pride in the marks. Perhaps it enhanced them, the tattoos gaining a deeper meaning for having endured something painful to get them.

It was much like battle scars D'Artagnan thought, even though no one chose to have those. He had very few compared to the other musketeers but Aramis's scars were badges to signify his past triumphs in battle, the marks of a brave soldier carried with pride and honor. The scar on Athos's lip contributed to his authority and was a testament to everyone that he was strong and could endure. The wicked scar that had marred Porthos's face but spared his eye was a warning to any and all that he was a dangerous man. Porthos had never offered up the story of that scar, but D'Artagnan suspected it would be a thrilling tale.

D'Artagnan thought about the marks he was given, like scars, and the marks he might choose, like a tattoo. He realized that ultimately they all became part of you, part of your life, a map upon your body of the deeds you had done and the people you had loved. Perhaps in time Porthos would accept the lines and patterns on his body as he did any other scar he received in battle, but the brand? Like the fruit seller's tattoo, it was a mark put upon Porthos's chest to signify something specific to others – but the message was not one of belonging, but of being owned. D'Artagnan sighed, running a hand through his hair as if to brush away his troubling thoughts. He wasn't sure how he could fix that, how anyone could, but he trusted that if there was any possibility Athos and Aramis would be able to find a way.

* * *

 _AN: If you are curious about what I was trying to describe with the fruit seller, Google "white tattoos" - to me, they look like scars or brands as the white starts to fade. In my completely unfactual imagination, Porthos's healing scars would start to look something like that as well._


	25. Chapter 25

_WARNING: This chapter directly addresses violence against women and while not graphic does have mention of non-consensual restraint and physical abuse. While this is much more about rescue than abuse, if you are sensitive to those topics, skip the part from where D'Artagnan kicks in the door and jump to the last two paragraphs. Also for anyone in a domestic situation that is emotionally or physically abusive and needs help - PM me and I will work to help you with the fierceness of a musketeer._

 _My thanks as ever to Issai for her careful beta-reading and unwavering support and encouragement. I'd be lost without her. I reserve full ownership of all errors._

* * *

Captain Demont's men made for an impressive force as they took up position around _La Chatte Secrète_ , surrounding both front and back access points as well as the side alleys. Demont himself was leading the raid. Brothel raids were not that unusual and generally, the expectation was to round up the clientele, not shut down the establishment. The municipality, or its leaders, typically earned a percentage of profits in taxes and bribes and it was in their best interests to keep these houses flourishing. While the patrons were fleeing, the women would be gathered and guarded, leaving the brothel to easily reopen a few days after the scandal died down. Only in the cases of such gross depravity as to be deemed to be an affront to both God and man did the establishment itself get shut down, assets seized and the proprietors jailed, flogged or even maimed for their actions. _La Chatte Secrète_ had long been rumored to be one of those places and Aramis's account of what he found there the final straw in a list of growing complaints.

They expected resistance from the thugs typically employed to keep the patrons from brawling and keep the women in check. Knowing the cruelty that the establishment encouraged against the women in its employ, there was little doubt that they needed brute force to keep them subdued and the hired men might put up a good fight. The mercenaries sent after Porthos as well as the ones that had attempted to ambush them in the woods were not commonplace cutthroats. The Varades had drawn their private brigade most likely from former soldiers who clearly had some training and skill. If they were paid well enough, the resistance would be fierce even without their masters being at home. It was likely they did not yet know of the young Comte de Varade's death and would fight as men loyal to a cause – although in this case, the cause was their steady income.

Demont had sent in Athos and his musketeers to be in place inside the brothel as a first assault on the armed men. As Aramis had already visited the establishment once and had been welcomed by the proprietress, no one would question his return with two of his friends in tow. The skill of the Musketeers was legend throughout France and Demont would have been foolish to not use Athos and his men to their best advantage.

Athos raked his eyes once again over Aramis as the marksman stood leaning against the bar, his posture relaxed and open but his face shaded by the brim of his hat. He knew Aramis would favor his injured side and that a blow across the back could be debilitating with his current injuries, but he equally knew there was no way he could have kept Aramis back at the garrison short of tying him to his bed. Athos had engaged him a light spar after supper, just to stretch cramped muscles and Aramis had fared well – well enough to attract a crowd of Demont's men to watch the two musketeers do battle around the practice yard. Athos had noticed the strain in Aramis's face as he lunged and caught his wince when at one point Athos had driven him to his knees, but by anyone else's standards, Aramis appeared not just capable, but formidable. Even wounded, he was just that.

It was awkward not to have Porthos with them. The absence was palpable to Athos, a gaping hole in his typical battle plans that no man of Demont's could hope to fill. Porthos had not spoken to them again since the exchange with Athos earlier in the day. He had taken wine and broth when offered, had sat obediently while Master Farhad changed his dressings, had even quietly allowed Aramis to help him to a bed in their new private quarters, but he had not had a word for anyone. Once settled in his assigned bed, he'd turned on his side, his back to the room, and remained unmoving and unresponsive. They had stopped trying. Just left food and water on the table and periodically cleared away the untouched bowls. Corporal Durand had volunteered to stay behind. It seemed he was growing fond of the men he had been posted with over the last two days and knew they would want someone there should their friend be in need.

Athos had not been comfortable leaving Porthos alone, that was true. But he could not deny Aramis or D'Artagnan the opportunity to strike a blow against the Varades. They knew they would not find Celeste here, but still, it was a step toward justice that they all needed to take. Athos looked to Aramis again and the marksman seemed to know he had Athos's attention as he gave a subtle shift of his head toward the large staircase. Athos glanced over, immediately keying in on what Aramis had seen. They had already noted the four armed men casually positioned around the stairs, but now two more were making their way up the staircase, several cups and a bottle of wine in their hands. Athos smirked. This would go easier if some of the expected resistance was drunk.

The woman who had greeted Aramis with familiarity when they entered had returned to press herself to Aramis's side. Her thin gossamer gown was open to the naval and she brazenly slipped Aramis's arm through the opening and around her bare waist. She was part of the Madame's household and clearly wanted Aramis to take some time with her. Athos watched as Aramis shifted his body to slot her easily to his side while taking the opportunity to look over her head and give another sweep of the room with his sharp eyes. Beside him, Athos could feel D'Artagnan fidgeting again. He was uncomfortable here but Athos's stony presence had been enough to chase the women away after their initial attempt to drag them both off into one of the curtained parlors. Athos had made it clear they would make their pick for their night's entertainment when they were ready and not before, his icy stare enough to keep them at bay.

Aramis found Athos's eyes and he shared a look that told the Lieutenant he as not only ready but eager to get things started. Athos gave a small nod, acknowledging his own growing impatience but asking Aramis to stay in position. He was rewarded by a dark and lascivious smile as Aramis turned his attention to the woman in his arms, adjusting his grip on her body in a way that made her arch with pleasure. The woman might think she was making progress toward her conquest but the swordsman recognized the raw aggression that Aramis's lusty advance masked. Athos knew there was an old sorrow here from Aramis's upbringing that mingled with the fresh wounds of Porthos's abduction and ill-treatment. Tonight, Aramis was a very dangerous man to be on the wrong side of.

"Watch his back," Athos said quietly to D'Artagnan, giving a nod to the marksman. D'Artagnan acknowledged the command with a curt nod. D'Artagnan was a bundle of nervous energy. The strangeness and discomfort of the brothel mixing with his desire for justice and revenge for what had been done to Porthos and Aramis had him emotionally keyed up and struggling to stay focused. They had been working on this for months in training so that D'Artagnan's emotions could be harnessed, not overrule him. Channeling some of that into an order to protect the marksman might prevent D'Artagnan from losing himself in his own emotional response. Without Porthos there, Athos could feel the vulnerability of their group like a small fist balled in his chest. He would take all precautions necessary to see everyone returned home no worse for the wear from tonight's events.

Captain Demont's entrance into the brothel brought a quick end to Athos's contemplation. As soon as the Captain, flanked by half a dozen of his men, held up the writ of closure and announced an immediate cessation of all activities by the order of the Governor, chaos broke out in the main salon. Some of the women of the establishment beginning to argue the orders while others started gathering their clothing, and ushering their clients out of the building – be that via doorway, window or down a back hallway. The woman who had been clinging to Aramis had abandoned him quickly, moving behind the bar to secure the cash boxes. As voices rose and bodies shifted Athos and D'Artagnan made their way to the staircase, knowing from Aramis's previous visit that the women they sought were in the upstairs rooms. As they reached the bottom steps, Aramis appeared wordlessly at their side and the trio drew swords together as the four guards closed in to protect access to the staircase.

The shouts and cries of the patrons and employees rose as Demont's men started making arrests. As Athos and his comrades engaged with the four guards, the two they had seen previously hurried back down the stairs, alerted by the rising din of panicked and angry voices. Athos didn't have time to consider further if Demont's force would be sufficient to subdue the room as the center two attackers both choose to target him. He raised his rapier to easily parry the double downward strikes aimed at his head and used his momentum to push the basket of his sword along the blade of one of the attackers pushing him back a pace. The two men choose to try and flank him, one moving to his left the other to his right. Athos made quick note of where his comrades were as he drew the men toward him, taking a few retreating steps away from the stairs to prevent his opponents from an easy shift in tactics toward his friends. On his right, Aramis had already dispatched his man and had engaged the two on the steps. Aramis could handle two at a time, but he was at the disadvantage by being on the lower steps. Athos noted Aramis had not yet drawn his main gauche probably attempting to hold out as long as possible before stressing his injured side by parrying heavy blows. To his left, D'Artagnan had just one opponent but his size rivaled that of Porthos. If D'Artagnan got too overzealous with his sword work and allowed the large man to get his hands on him, their recruit could be in trouble.

Athos had no time to consider more as his two opponents had apparently worked out their attack strategy. One came at him with a roar and an overhead strike on his right while the other gave a low lunge in an attempt for Athos's abdomen. Athos would have to stretch up to parry the overhead strike, leaving his side easily exposed. The combined tactic proved their theory right about the experience of the attackers. But no matter the skill of these two, they had the unfortunate fate of being up against the best swordsman in the most elite fighting force in France.

Athos took the parry of the overhead strike with a twist of his body, lifting his rapier with his right hand and catching the bottom of attacker's blade. But instead of stopping, he continued his turn, further lifting the attacking blade away in a wide arc. He spun into the parry, raising his left hand to crash his main gauche down on the attacker's blade while sweeping his rapier up in front of himself and then extending the long blade to meet the incoming thrust. Executing a complete 180-degree spin to parry two incoming blades from opposite sides was the stuff of legend – and Athos was one.

Athos fought into the lunge of the second man, putting some distance to the opponent that was now dangerously behind him. The second man brought his main gauche up for a shoulder strike that Athos easily blocked with a parry from his rapier while bringing forward his own main gauche to parry another lunge at his abdomen. He was locked in position for just a moment as he held back both strikes when the mercenary bared his teeth in a triumphant grin. Athos immediately forced his body into the chest of the other man then unexpectedly ducked under his raised arm. He felt a sharp sting in his left forearm as he momentarily released his hold against his opponent's rapier, but felt the man stiffen even as Athos got completely behind him. The thrust meant for Athos's exposed back had just pierced the stomach of the man he had been fighting. It wasn't an instant kill though and the mercenary remained on his feet long enough for Athos to shove him into the shocked arms of his comrade who had just struck him. The second mercenary staggered back under the weight of his partner, reflex causing him to keep holding the man despite Athos's immediate advance. Too late he released the dying man to the floor only to have Athos's rapier shove itself through the vulnerable patch just above his collarbone. A strangled gurgle erupted with the blood pouring from the man's mouth as Athos's sword skewered his throat. With a jerk, Athos freed his sword and with the support of the blade removed, the man instantly collapsed.

Immediately in front of him, Athos recognized D'Artagnan was in trouble. He had clearly made some good hits against the big man as the attacker's doublet had several bleeding gashes. But as Athos watched D'Artagnan lost his footing in a slick of blood and went down hard onto his back. Athos was in motion immediately but the mercenary was already moving in for a killing strike. Despite being prone, D'Artagnan met the big man's thrust to his chest with a parry from his rapier but his attacker slid his blade into the basket of D'Artagnan's sword and used his strength and momentum to disarm the Gascon. So intent was the mercenary on moving in to finish D'Artagnan that he was caught completely off-guard by the fury of Athos hurling himself into the side of his body. Both men crashed to the ground and immediately started scrambling to gain the upper hand. Years of sparring with Porthos came to Athos's aid as he managed to keep the large man on the ground by dragging his opponent's arm up high on his back and twisting at the elbow. The man bellowed in pain, trying to buck his hips to dislodge Athos. Athos put all of his force into working that arm while looking quickly to assess D'Artagnan's condition. The Gascon was already on his feet retrieving his sword, a dark bruise rising under his eye but no other obvious injuries revealing themselves. He watched D'Artagnan pause and turn his head toward him, caught between a desire to aid Aramis but a reluctance to leave Athos.

"Go!" Athos bellowed, prompting D'Artagnan from his indecision. To his credit their young recruit didn't waste time with an acknowledgment, just sprinted to the stairs where their marksman was embroiled in a pitched battle. Athos noticed the dead men splayed along the bottom of the stairs but saw that another man had replaced him and yet a third was making his way down the staircase. But he had no more time to watch as the man beneath him had twisted and gotten a hand up to apply pressure under Athos's chin and force his head and body back. His friends were going to be on their own for some time yet as Athos continued struggling with the big man.

* * *

At Athos's shout, D'Artagnan was immediately in motion, running toward the grand staircase. He leaped over a body sprawled at the foot of the stairs and took the steps two at a time, making it to Aramis's side just in time to parry a thrust from a third attacker meant for Aramis's heart. Aramis gave a sound somewhere between a growl and a chuckle as he acknowledged his friend at his side. D'Artagnan's presence seemed to embolden the marksman and as Aramis drew his main gauche D'Artagnan knew he was about to double down on the offensive.

It was trickier for them to mount an offensive position from their spot on the staircase. The uneven surface was challenging to navigate as was the more vulnerable position of being on lower ground than the attackers. D'Artagnan fought to reverse the advantage, moving to flank the man he had engaged and try to get above him. Instead of a dagger, the mercenary D'Artagnan was fighting held two rapiers and D'Artagnan was hard pressed to find a way under and around the two flashing blades. His maneuver did draw the man further from his companions and with the agility of a cat, Aramis managed to parry an incoming strike and spin up and through the small opening between the two men. D'Artagnan watched as Aramis pivoted gracefully, catching his nearest opponent's thrust with his main gauche while kicking out with his right leg to strike D'Artagnan's opponent in the back of the knee. The man pitched forward wildly at the loss of the stabilizing limb and D'Artagnan scurried out of the way as he tumbled down the stairs. D'Artagnan watched him struggle to rise, concerned they would have an attacker at both front and back but then he caught sight of Athos rising from the floor where he had been grappling with the large mercenary. D'Artagnan turned back to Aramis, confident Athos would take the man out before he could cause them more trouble.

Aramis had indeed gained at least even footing with the two mercenaries, but they had forced him back toward the balustrade, his weight leaning dangerously back over the waist-high railing. D'Artagnan caught a glance from Aramis that said 'a little help here' and indicated the man to his left. Their arms were impossibly twisted so neither could strike a blow but the attacker was pressing Aramis back as the musketeer fought to parry the onslaught of strikes coming from the other mercenary. D'Artagnan couldn't help a grin as he lunged for the man entwined with Aramis. So focused were they on the marksman that they had left themselves vulnerable to an attack from the rear.

D'Artagnan raised his hand and slammed the basket of his rapier into the side of the mercenary's head. He let out a grunt but didn't fall and D'Artagnan pummeled him a second and then a third time until he went limp, disengaging his grip on Aramis as he fell. As D'Artagnan shifted his attention to the next man, a shot rang out and the wooden railing of the balustrade splintered between him and Aramis. Aramis grunted as he struggled to find his pistol with his now free hand and D'Artagnan ducked low to grab Aramis's other attacker around his midsection and drag him away from the marksman. As soon as D'Artagnan was in the clear, Aramis's shot rang out followed a scream and then a sickening thud as a body from the balcony along the second floor hit the ground with a sickening crack. D'Artagnan got the man in his arms pressed back into the staircase and plunged his dagger into the mercenary's shoulder just as another shot rang out behind him and another scream told him Aramis had again hit his mark.

D'Artagnan pulled his dagger from the man writhing below him and straightened just as Aramis holstered his spent pistols and retrieved his dropped blades.

"Upstairs," Aramis snarled and D'Artagnan was by his side as they took the stairs two at a time. The chaos in the lower salon had turned to absolute pandemonium at the sound of gunfire and the large room was suddenly a screaming mob of everyone trying to get out of the building at once. D'Artagnan and Aramis dodged a steady stream of panicked patrons and workers racing down the stairs.

"They'll be in the rooms along the center corridor," Aramis called out to D'Artagnan just before the marksman sliced through an advancing guard with a vicious cut across the abdomen. "Check every room and be careful of what you might find behind closed doors," the marksman cautioned. When Aramis had been here in search of the Varades he had heard the muffled cries of pain emanating from those rooms and the musketeers had been directed to concentrate on freeing the women kept behind the locked doors. D'Artagnan gave Aramis a grim nod and turning back to back they simultaneously kicked in the first door on either side of the long hallway.

The lock gave way under the force of D'Artagnan's kick and he immediately rushed into the open doorway, sword at the ready as he heeded Aramis's warning about not knowing what might be behind the door. The sight that met D'Artagnan's eyes froze the Gascon in his tracks.

The well-appointed room was a heady mix of red and pink brocades, gilt patterns on the wall and plush upholstered furniture near the window. But the centerpiece was an enormous bed with thick, carved posts where a young woman was tied to each corner by black strips of fabric. Her breasts were bared and her petticoats hiked up to her hips. She was blindfolded and crying, struggling ineffectually at the bonds holding her spread-eagled on the bed. Too many thoughts tried to cram themselves into D'Artagnan's mind at the sight of the woman laid out before him but quickly he felt the overwhelming sense of white-hot anger rising from his gut. D'Artagnan's eyes narrowed and his focus sharpened as his rage honed down to a burning need to protect the helpless woman and serve justice to whoever had done this.

D'Artagnan pulled his gaze from the sobbing girl to find a portly man struggling into his tall boots, his back against the wall and his eyes wide with fear. The man's breathing was ragged and his face red from the exertion of hurriedly dressing. By the cut and cloth of his clothes, D'Artagnan realized this was a nobleman, someone who's life was supposed to be ruled by his honor and yet he had been here, in this locked room, committing some act of depravity against the body of the woman immobilized on the bed. It was only Athos's voice in D'Artagnan's head that stopped him slicing his blade across the man's throat.

"Yield, Monsieur," the Gascon spat, his voice a cold as ice, "I will not ask again.

"I yield! I yield" the man whimpered, dropping his second boot as D'Artagnan advanced on him, rapier pointed to his heart.

"Untie her," D'Artagnan ordered, gesturing with his sword to encourage the man to move. The portly man shifted quickly to the head of the bed and worked with trembling fingers to untie the knots in the fabric. D'Artagnan kept his sword pointed toward the nobleman but reached with his main gauche to slice through the bonds at the woman's ankles. As soon as her feet were released she pulled them up toward her chest and pushed off the bed to scramble back against the ornate headboard. The nobleman released her right arm and she moved quickly to pull off the blindfold and start working at the knot holding her other wrist.

"On your knees," D'Artagnan commanded as he shifted toward the head of the bed to slice through the remaining restraint with his dagger. The nobleman dropped as ordered, sputtering to D'Artagnan to spare his life and that it wasn't his fault. The threat neutralized, D'Artagnan turned his attention to the woman now huddled in on herself at the center of the headboard. He lowered his weapons and approached her as he might a skittish horse that had been spooked.

"Easy, I won't hurt you," D'Artagnan said, his voice full of softness, "I'm here to help you. What's your name?"

"Justine," she choked out between sobs.

"Justine, it's alright," D'Artagnan soothed, setting down his rapier and sheathing his main gauche. "No one is going to hurt you anymore," He picked up a soft, green plush cloak that had been deposited on the bed and draped it over the woman's trembling form. "I'm D'Artagnan of the King's Musketeers. We are here to see you all safe." She gave a tearful sniffle and pulled the cloak tightly around herself. "Wait here," D'Artagnan said gently.

D'Artagnan felt a slight shake in his hands as he turned to approach the kneeling nobleman. He was angry and doing everything in his power not to let his feelings overwhelm his duty in this situation. This was the hardest part of soldiering as far as D'Artagnan was concerned. Every inch of him wanted to soundly beat the nobleman cowering in front of him for what he had been doing, but D'Artagnan knew his duty was clear. The nobleman would be arrested with the others and whether the punishment meted to him was fitting or not, punished he would be. It was not D'Artagnan's place to think on more than that, but he knew his hands were trembling from suppressed rage as he picked up one of the pieces of black fabric that had been used to tie the girl to the bed.

"Monsieur, please, I beg you . . ." the nobleman stammered, likely responding to the unbridled aggression he could see in the young Musketeer's eyes. He clasped his hands in appeal as D'Artagnan approached. In a smooth gesture, D'Artagnan caught up the man's hands and wrapped the cloth tightly around his wrists.

"You are under arrest for acts of depravity against man and God by order of the Governor," D'Artagnan spat as he knotted the nobleman's bonds, "Stay here on your knees until the guard comes for you because if you venture from this room, your life is forfeit." D'Artagnan had made that part up but by the way the portly man nodded and whimpered he was certain he didn't realize it. Under the tutelage of his friends, his education in emotional manipulation had been just as thorough in his training with blades and muskets. D'Artagnan moved around the large bed and offered his hand to the woman. She had stopped crying and stared at him with wide, hopeful eyes.

"Justine, come with me," he said earnestly, "Let's get you out of here," he added with a nod. A thin, pale arm snaked from between the folds of the voluminous cloak and a small white hand nestled itself into his warm, brown one. With an encouraging smile, D'Artagnan pulled Justine to her feet and with his rapier raised defensively in front of him lead her to the door. He wasn't exactly sure what to do next, but then he saw Aramis emerge from a room further up the hall, a teenage girl tucked protectively under his arm. The marksman caught his eyes and gave D'Artagnan an affirmative nod. Aramis leaned in to whisper something to the girl. She nodded and then pushed off from him running down the corridor toward D'Artagnan. D'Artagnan looked back toward the staircase to see two women huddled together on the landing, three of Demont's men forming a protective circle around them.

"Simone!" Justine encouraged as the girl neared them. The girl slowed as she neared them but instead of coming closer, she pressed herself back against the opposite wall, fear plastered over her face. D'Artagnan moved toward her, Justine still in hand, and Simone's eyes widened in terror, fixed on the Gascon's rapier pointed in her direction. D'Artagnan quickly shifted his grip, pointing the blade toward the floor while he gestured with his fingers for the girl to approach.

"Sssh, sssh, I'm not going to hurt you," D'Artagnan said, giving her an encouraging nod.

"Simone," Justine held out her other hand, gesturing to the frightened girl, "It's alright. He's a Musketeer." Simone glanced back the way she had come to see her original protector kicking in the next door in the corridor. Clearly still frightened, the girl found whatever courage she needed to rush into Justine's arms. Justine dropped D'Artagnan's hand and gathered the younger woman close.

"Justine, take Simone and join your friends," D'Artagnan said, urgently ushering them toward the other women on the landing. "Those soldiers will protect you. I have to find the others." Justine nodded and tugged Simone's hand, pulling her toward the rest of the emancipated girls. D'Artagnan's eyes widened in horror as his eyes followed the women. Simone's thin robe clung to her back, plastered to her body along the wet red trails of blood from dozens of weeping wounds. Someone had been whipping her violently.

D'Artagnan let out a low growl and turned to the next doorway. He couldn't understand how anyone could do that to a woman but at that moment he realized he didn't care. He would see them all safe and the men that harmed them in prison – or dead if any were unlucky enough to challenge him.

Six more doors lined D'Artagnan's side of the corridor and behind each one he found a different horror. In the first a naked woman was tied to a chair, her face bruised and bloodied from someone beating her. In the next the woman was unharmed but so frightened she was huddled into the far corner of the room, clinging to the heavy draperies lining the tall windows. Her eyes kept darting to the bed where D'Artagnan found two half-dressed men hiding, apparently a father and son. In the third room he finally met some serious resistance – two of the mercenaries hired to protect the establishment had taken refuge with three of the women in a large bedroom. D'Artagnan felt the feral smile take over his face as he realized the men were going to fight. He had no guilt when he left them dead on the floor.

The final two rooms on D'Artagnan's side were empty and as he returned to the corridor he looked anxiously around for Aramis. He had caught sight of him entering his last doorway before he himself had engaged with the remaining mercenaries but now he did not know where he had gotten to. Worried he made his way into the last room he had seen Aramis enter, but found that empty, a pool of blood gathering under a dead body on the floor. Apparently Aramis had met some resistance as well. D'Artagnan returned to the corridor and looked back down the long hallway where the women they had rescued had gathered. There were more guards there now and the din from the chaos in the salon had lessened considerably. A familiar head crested the top of the stairs and Athos appeared, face grim but seemingly wholly intact, with more of Demont's men at his heels. He stopped beside the group on the landing and he and the soldiers began ushering the women down the stairs. D'Artagnan moved to join him and ask about Aramis when a thunderous, clattering crash came from behind him.

"Aramis!" D'Artagnan shouted instinctively and turned to the heavy door that stood half open at the head of the corridor. Pulling his main gauche as he ran forward, D'Artagnan shoved the door the rest of the way open with his shoulder, skidding to a halt as he crossed the threshold. The room was in shambles and standing in the middle of the wreckage, a pile of bodies at his feet, stood Aramis with sword and rapier in hand and a dark countenance that looked ready to challenge the devil himself. D'Artagnan let out a small exhale at the violence in the marksman's eyes and remembered the battle lust that had overcome Aramis in their fight outside of Toutanville. D'Artagnan froze to the spot, chilled by the raw anguish emanating from the marksman and uncertain if Aramis recognized him enough not to turn that violence against his friend.


	26. Chapter 26

_A/N: Like the previous chapter, this one also references violence and abuse toward women but it is not particularly detailed in its description. You can skip the first section if you are sensitive to that. I know it's been a little long between chapters, but summer vacation was entirely worth it! To make it up, this chapter is particularly long :) Thanks for everyone who continues to read and I can't tell you how much I appreciate the reviews and to know that people are enjoying the fic. My thanks are always with Issai who makes the writing better and provides the moral support that keeps me motivated. Couldn't do it without her. Plenty of mistakes still and those are all mine :)_

* * *

A resounding crash echoed down the hallway followed by D'Artagnan's desperate cry of "Aramis!" Athos raised his head in time to see the Gascon pushing his way into the room at the end of the corridor. Without sparing another thought Athos ran forward, drawing his rapier as he rushed to the doorway D'Artagnan had just entered. Athos pulled up short next to D'Artagnan and as he took quick stock of the room his eyes were immediately drawn to Aramis.

The musketeer stood frozen but the tension in his body seemed to thrum with the raw power of an avenging angel. He stood as a statue amidst a wreckage of human carnage sprawled at his feet, rapier and dagger held to the side, arms outstretched, palms up as if his welcoming the next attack. His head was slightly bowed but his face tilted up, hat at a rough angle obscuring his features in the shadow of the brim yet revealing dark eyes glittering with danger and warning.

Everything in Aramis's body spoke protection.

Beside him D'Artagnan shifted as if he was about to speak but Athos hushed him with a small gesture. Athos scanned the room, looking for what or who Aramis was guarding. He noted the golden frame standing behind the marksman, the frame Aramis had described when he had finally opened up to Athos about what had happened. This was the room where Celeste Varade had committed countless heinous acts against her young victims. This was where Aramis himself had been forced to commit a violent act to his own body rather than see her hurt anyone else. Aramis's battle stance declared that no more torture would be committed here, yet Aramis had been too late.

Behind him, dangling limply from wrists clamped into the frame, was the body of a young women. Her head lolled to the side and Athos could see the horrific gash that sliced her neck from ear to ear. Her body was coated in her own blood. The men at Aramis's feet must have killed her rather than risk letting her go and Aramis had ruthlessly slaughtered every one of them.

"Aramis," Athos said quietly, his calm and practiced voice masking his worry. Athos wanted to step closer to his friend but until Athos was certain that Aramis recognized him, it would be dangerous. He too remembered the blood lust from Toutanville, although Athos felt that something different was at play here. Toutanville had been days of pent up fear and worry released in the middle of a heated battle. Aramis like this was something else entirely – something he had caught glimpses of in battle as he stood over a fallen comrade or in the infirmary when he fought to save a life.

"Aramis," Athos tried again, sheathing his rapier and holding out his hands, "The fighting is done, _mon ami_. Put up your sword." Athos laid a hand D'Artagnan's arm, silently telling him to stay put, then he took a cautious step toward the marksman. Aramis didn't move, but he saw the marksman's eyes tracking him as he came slowly forward. Athos stepped carefully, the floor littered with an array of knives, daggers and blades that skittered beneath his feet. Athos remembered the cabinet that Aramis described and realized the commotion they had heard must have been it crashing to the ground, spilling its deadly contents like trash washed up on a shipwrecked shore. Athos paused, not wanting the sounds of the metal blades to push Aramis deeper into his own mind.

"Peace, Aramis, she is gone," Athos pleaded softly, "She is past the hurts that this world can inflict upon her. And you have killed those who harmed her," Athos said, his voice full of care. Aramis licked his lips and shifted his head slightly, looking back over his shoulder toward the limp figure suspended in the golden frame. Athos stepped around the sprawled limbs of the dead, drawing closer to Aramis. "We cannot leave her like this," Athos appealed, hoping that Aramis's instinct for care and healing would overcome the soldier's thrall that seemed to have overtaken him. "Let us help her now to find a final peace."

Aramis returned his gaze to Athos and he could see the overwhelming sadness now coloring the marksman's eyes. Athos felt a lump rise in his throat to see such sorrow but knew that he no longer had anything to fear. Wherever Aramis had been, he was back with them now. Athos closed the last of the distance between them and put a hand to the wrist where Aramis held his rapier, the other hand to his shoulder. Aramis took in a shaky breath and bowed his head, giving it a small shake as if to deny what his eyes had seen. Athos squeezed Aramis's shoulder and gave him a moment to regain his composure. In a short moment Aramis raised his head to meet Athos's eyes and Athos could see the dampness of unshed tears as his friend tried to hold himself together. Aramis opened his mouth as if to speak, but could not seem to say anything.

"It's alright," Athos said, shifting his grip from Aramis's shoulder to the back of his neck, "Let us take care of her." Aramis nodded, gratitude shining through his gaze despite the sadness still etched there

Aramis gave a strong exhale and relaxed his shoulders before sheathing his rapier and making a slight adjustment to his hat. Athos felt a twinge of relief as he recognized that gesture as one of Aramis's tells – the angle of that hat and the way he adjusted it spoke volumes about Aramis's state of mind at any given time to those who knew how to read the signs. The adjustment here, shifting the hat more squarely back onto his head, let Athos know that Aramis was grounding himself, letting go of the last of that dark place he had been in. When Aramis caught his eye again, the marksman seemed resolute rather than raw and Athos let out a sigh of relief.

Aramis turned to the woman strung up in the frame and paused, main gauche clutched in his hand. Athos realized that Aramis could not bring himself to do this.

"Here," Athos said as he gently released the dagger from Aramis's grip. He reached up, slicing through the binding on her wrist. The woman's limp form shifted and Aramis moved instinctually to grip the girl so she would not flop forward. Athos made to move to the other side, but D'Artagnan was already there, cutting free the other wrist. Aramis gently draped the lifeless body over his chest while Athos and D'Artagnan crouched to cut the restraints from her ankles. As soon as she was free, Aramis scooped her up in his arms looking.

"On the bed," Athos said putting a hand to Aramis and encouraging him to move toward the large bed. D'Artagnan swept some debris from the ornate covering and then eased a pillow under the dead woman's head as Aramis gently laid her down.

"We should not just leave her like this," Aramis said softly.

"I'll get a basin and some cloths," D'Artagnan said, giving Aramis a pat on the arm as he moved past him. Aramis briefly touched D'Artagnan's hand and gave him a small nod, thanking him for his assistance.

"Check in with Captain Demont," Athos told D'Artagnan, "Let him know we have cleared this floor and will search the rooms before we leave." D'Artagnan acknowledged the order with a nod, moving swiftly to report to their commander and find the supplies they needed. As D'Artagnan left, Aramis sighed seemingly unwilling to have expressed his feelings in front of the younger man. Athos waited, knowing his friend would speak when ready. It did not take long.

Keeping his fixed on the body before him, Aramis's voice was surprisingly steady, "Two of them were in here when I came in. She was crying, pleading for them to let her go. They seemed surprised – as if we would not enter here," Aramis paused, and looked to Athos, his brow wrinkling as he considered something, "Perhaps that is why Captain Demont had us lead? This would not be the first time that bribes had ensured that certain places remain unsearched in a raid like this."

"Was it the girl they were protecting?" Athos asked

"No, it is this room," Aramis gave a small shudder as he spoke, "This was Celeste's room. Her studio. And this frame is where she made her cruel art. Despite the raid, I don't think they were expecting anyone to enter."

"She has a friend in a high place then," Athos surmised, "Regardless, with Musketeers here, there was no safe place for any of them."

"I told them to stand down," Aramis said, his eyes returning to the body. Athos noticed Aramis's hand shift to finger the gold cross around his neck, "I was not disappointed when they resisted." Aramis's report was detached and precise, but Athos knew there was something deeper hidden by mask of a practiced soldier. "I brought down one just as more came through the door. They didn't have to kill her," Aramis turned his gaze back to Athos his eyes appealing for an answer that Athos did not have, "They could have given her up, retreated, surrendered . . ." Aramis's voice trailed off as he lost himself in the memory. His eyes flicked back to the figure on the bed, "They deserved no quarter after that."

"Why kill her though?" Athos puzzled, "Surely men as these would rather have bargained for their own lives by offering to spare her."

"Orders perhaps" Aramis mused but his voice remained distant, his heart not really in the conversation.

"Or maybe she knew something of the Varades that these men did not want revealed. They are not likely to know their Master is dead and their Mistress on the run," Athos speculated, "So they felt they were protecting something."

"There will be no protection for that woman when I find her," Aramis said, voice as cold as Athos had ever heard it.

D'Artagnan returned with the basin and cloths, interrupting their conversation as he placed the items on the bed. Aramis picked one up and dampened it, then gently raised one of the girl's arms and began to wash off the blood. Athos was surprised to see D'Artagnan shift to the other side of the bed and begin to do the same. He knew D'Artagnan was not so sheltered to have no experience with an unclad woman, but he seemed unexpectedly sure of himself in handling the body. Athos sighed. In his association with the musketeers, the Gascon was getting used to keeping company with death.

While Aramis and D'Artagnan cleaned the blood from the dead woman, Athos searched the bodies of the mercenaries, finding full coin purses like he had with the men who had ambushed them outside of Toutanville. The Varades paid well and the loyalty they had bought caused these men to fight to their death. Knowing Celeste was still at large gave Athos a chill. There was too much wealth in the hands of one so cruel. This would hang over them until they got word that she had been captured in Saint-Pierre.

Aramis and D'Artagnan finished their gruesome work and D'Artagnan found a blanket on the floor which he used to cover the woman. Aramis gently folded her hands across her stomach and picked up the cross around his neck. His lips moved in what Athos knew was a prayer for the dead. The other two men waited, while not sharing Aramis's faith, whatever their friend chose to hold holy they did as well. When it looked like Aramis might linger yet, Athos stepped to him and put a hand to his shoulder.

"Come. There are nearly a dozen women who we need to get back to the infirmary. Master Farhad is there but your assistance will be required," Athos said. Aramis gave a nod and adjusted his hat again – forward and straight across his brow. There was work to do and he was ready. "I'll have someone see to the woman," Athos added before Aramis could ask. Aramis clapped Athos on the arm, and the men filed out of the room, D'Artagnan softly closing the door behind them as they left.

* * *

The garrison at Le Havre was a bustle of activity well into the small hours of the night. The women that returned with them had a varying degree of injury, some just bruised and wide-eyed in fear at the events in the night, others with broken bones and lacerations from the lash – or worse. Aramis wasted no time in stripping off his doublet, rolling up his shirtsleeves, and joining Master Farhad in the care of his charges. Corporal Durand assisted, drawing water, cleaning surgical instruments and making poultices and teas. Athos lingered in the doorway of the infirmary watching Aramis amidst the quiet chaos of the large room, grateful that Captain Demont had seen fit to take his recommendation regarding the care of the victims. Aramis was concerned and professional, but the lines of worry and tension had bled from his face and his eyes were soft and warm for each of the women he tended. Healing was a balm to Aramis's soul and after the brutality the marksman had shown earlier in the evening, Athos knew there was no better thing for him to do than tend the injured and make right the wrongs. Confident that the two healers had things well in hand, Athos left the infirmary to join D'Artagnan in the garrison's small prison.

Despite the hour, the courtyard was busy with men fresh from battle tending their horses, cleaning weapons, having a drink to their success. Although the garrison at Le Havre was larger than the Musketeer garrison in Paris, the feeling was very much the same and Athos felt a tug of longing for the comforts of home. It had felt empty and wrong to be there when Porthos had been abducted but Athos felt now that this ordeal would not truly be over until they were all gathered at their table in the courtyard sharing a bottle of wine.

Athos considered checking in with Demont, but the line of merchants and nobles plucked from their raid extended far past the Captain's door. From the look of it, Demont would be a few hours yet. He could report on the situation at the infirmary and the condition of the women at the same time he reported on the results of his and D'Artagnan's interrogation. They had been assigned to interview the mercenaries that they had captured, Demont again wisely deferring to the Musketeers who would not be susceptible to bribery or coercion. As Athos made his way into the small prison he could not help but admire Captain Demont for both his shrewd strategy and his generosity to him and his men. He reminded himself he would have to learn more from Treville about his time in prison during Marie di Medici's coup as it apparently forged a brotherhood with Demont as tight as the bonds he felt with his men here now.

There were six small, barred cells in the tiny jail and each held one or two men. They lazed on the floor unshackled but subdued by their injuries. Athos did not expect a fight from them tonight. They were battered still from the battle. When they transferred them to _La Citadelle_ tomorrow, they would be in chains as men facing the brutal justice of the Governor's court were likely to be more than a little desperate. While they would be interrogated again there, Athos wanted to leverage their weary state and the natural inclination of men like this to bargain for their freedom and see what further information they could glean about the Varades. The death of the young comte had done nothing to quell the unease that Athos bore. His instincts told him that the woman, Celeste, was a threat as long as she remained at large. While Captain Demont seemed confident they would apprehend her at Saint-Pierre, Athos preferred to not take chances.

D'Artagnan had taken one of the men from his cell and seated him on a wooden chair in an open chamber at the end of the corridor. The Gascon leaned casually against one of the stone walls, arms folded, ankles crossed – a study in patience. His languid body position spoke ease and lightness while the man seated in front of him reeked of fear, his body tense and his eyes darting wildly around the cell. Athos suppressed a smile as he took in the scene before him. Their young recruit was obviously putting some of Aramis's and Porthos's less conventional training to use. Athos approached quietly, assuming a neutral expression that would not give anything away. He saw D'Artagnan flick his eyes toward him at his approach but with a nearly imperceptible nod of his head Athos indicated that D'Artagnan should continue.

"It appears you have run out of time, Monsieur," D'Artagnan said with a note of sadness in his voice, "I did warn you though about what would happen when the Lieutenant arrived," D'Artagnan shifted to stand before the seated man, giving a nod of his head toward where Athos stood in the doorway. Their prisoner flicked his eyes to Athos and paled, but then returned his gaze to D'Artagnan and sneered at him.

"He's a Musketeer. He ain't touching me," the words sounded bold, but the prisoner's attempt at a smile looked more like a grimace, "King's man. Gotta follow rules."

D'Artagnan quirked an eyebrow and let out a small sigh, "Unfortunately, he's not a very good Musketeer." Athos wasn't sure exactly what threat D'Artagnan had made to the man, but he decided now would be a good time to slowly draw his main gauche and start casually testing the edge of the blade with his thumb. Athos left his countenance neutral, allowing the prisoner to read whatever he wanted into the situation. His gesture was rewarded with the prisoner shifting uncomfortably in his chair, drawing more in on himself as he looked with disbelief at D'Artagnan.

"You wouldn't let him," the man said incredulously.

"Oh, I have no choice," D'Artagnan said innocently, "He out ranks me. You'd have to give him a good reason at this point not to," D'Artagnan leaned into the man, his body tensing and the threat in his voice evident, "An exceptionally good reason." D'Artagnan's smile was almost feral and he looked eager for whatever act of violence he had threatened to the man's person.

The man looked frantically back and forth between Athos and D'Artagnan. He licked his lips nervously and opened and closed his mouth, obviously warring with himself as to whether or not he should speak and uncertain if the promised threat was real.

D'Artagnan waited a few moments then shook his head, "Very well," he said with resignation, "Perhaps your companions will be more cooperative once he is through with you." D'Artagnan took a step back and glanced meaningfully to Athos. Athos still had no clue as to the threat, but he did know how to look intimidating. Athos let his lips curl into a hungry smile as he moved toward the man who was now starting to tremble.

"Alright! Alright!" the man shouted, "I know where the warehouse is. I can show you . . ." he trailed off as he noticed D'Artagnan shaking his head.

"We already know about that. We raided it two days ago," D'Artagnan's voice was cold as steel now, "Try again. I'm losing my patience."

The man was panting, thinking hard about what information could spare him from Athos now that his first bargaining chip had proved useless. The man would have to dig deeper.

"The brothel," D'Artagnan prompted, "What really happens there?"

"She's cruel. Crueler even than him," the prisoner said with a nod to Athos, "The things she does to those girls . . ." he trailed off and licked his lips again, composing himself, "She's a devil and I'm well rid of her and her brother," the man paused and crossed himself, as if deciding that this confession to the Musketeers would serve to somehow absolve him of his participation.

"How is she cruel?" Athos asked, his voice flat and emotionless.

"She doesn't just beat them, like the Master does. She cuts them. You hear them screaming even through the doorway. She calls them art. The prettiest ones, she uses for herself. The others she gives over to anyone with enough money for the pleasure," the man paused, taking a shuddering breath, "She's skinned 'em when she was finished. Or had her brother whip them to death. The stories about that place are all true. You can take 'em rough if you want. Beat 'em. Gut 'em. The worst sort go there."

"Where does she get the women?" Athos asked. A glance at D'Artagnan told him it was better that he picked up the interrogation from here. While the boy's face was stoic, his eyes were wide. These cruel appetites were new to the Gascon and he could see the struggle he was having to accept what he was hearing.

"Brings 'em in on her wagon from the winery. Country girls mostly with no marriage prospects. Some street urchins from the poor quarter. Some just show up at the door, not thinking the whores are any different than anywhere else." It was not a surprising story, but the extent of it was shocking even to Athos. At least they would know where to look to try and return the women they had rescued to their families. Although given what the man had said, these were just a handful of her victims. Sadly, most were likely long dead.

"Where is she now?" Athos asked knowing full well that Celeste Varade was on a ship bound for Saint-Pierre. But if this man did not know that, then there might be something useful in hearing where he thought she might have gone to ground.

"One of the wineries maybe? There is one near Paris, another in Champagne. Her estate? The estate, now that's a dark place," the man said grimly. Now that he was talking, he seemed to tell them anything that was on his mind, "Men and women both she takes 'em and brutalizes them til they have no will of their own. Til they beg her for it."

"You have been there, to this estate?" Athos asked, his eyes narrowing. Athos and Aramis had visited the Varade estates outside of Paris. There was no evidence that anything untoward was happening there.

"No, no one from Le Havre has. It's how she protects it," the man replied grimly. But he raised his eyes finally to meet Athos's and a wicked gleam cast over them, "But I can find it. I can help you. It's hidden like. Not on a map. It's in Provence. Or no . . . Savoy. I can find it . . ." Athos snorted, knowing a desperate ploy when he heard it. The man had no idea, he had just as much admitted to it. Their prisoner did not have much useful information to tell them. Still, based on his comments they knew to search Treville's records for property belonging to the Varades in other regions of France beyond what they already were aware of. Athos wanted nothing more than to cleanse the nation of the taint of this family. The crown would seize all assets, strip the titles that should have been taken long before and this blight on French nobility would be stamped out.

"He has nothing useful for us," Athos said, sheathing his main gauche, "Let's go." D'Artagnan agreed, hauling the man up and shoving him back into his cell.

"He's not going to do it?" the man said, relief spilling over his face as he was returned unscathed to his prison.

D'Artagnan didn't respond just pulled the cell door shut with a resounding clang and used one of the iron keys in the ring at his belt to set the lock. The man sputtered and yelled as the two Musketeers made their way out of the prison, insisting that he would help them find Celeste Varade if they would release him.

"What did you tell him?" Athos asked as they left the prison, his curiosity getting the best of him.

"That you would castrate him and have his bollocks for breakfast if he didn't cooperate," D'Artagnan said with a wicked grin.

Athos shook his head and rolled his eyes although couldn't help the smile that graced his lips. This sounded like something right out of Porthos's mouth. He'd have to talk to those two. But as his thoughts turned to Porthos, Athos's smile faded. Things had not been well for his friend when they had left on the raid. After he and D'Artagnan reported to Captain Demont, they would go check on him. The Varades might be finished in France, but Porthos's ordeal was not over yet.

* * *

It was another hour before Athos and D'Artagnan could get back to the infirmary. After reporting to Demont, the Captain had produced maps and tax records from his cabinet and asked them to look for more establishments and properties that might belong to the Varades. Based on the accounts of the men he was interviewing, Demont seemed as determined as Athos to choke off the resources of the family. Athos and D'Artagnan were able to come up with four other locations in and near Le Havre for Demont and his men to visit – after, of course, obtaining warrants from the Governor. The Musketeers would be assigned to these raids as well, and Athos was tasked with returning to the portmaster to review his shipping rolls again and to alert him that any incoming ships from the Varades were subject to seizure. The garrison would be busy for quite some time cleaning up this mess.

Things had settled down in the infirmary since they had last been there. All the beds were occupied and most of the patients sleeping. Corporal Durand was sat on a stool by the hearth, head to his chest as he dozed. Master Farhad was drifting between the beds, adding blankets, adjusting bandaging or offering a soothing hand to the brow of someone disturbed in their sleep. Aramis was still there as well, applying a salve to the lashes on the back of a woman who at best was as old as D'Artagnan. Athos exhaled and rubbed his eyes. He needed to get to their rooms so he could find some wine and put this long, miserable night to an end.

Master Farhad finished with his rounds and made his way to Athos and D'Artagnan still standing in the doorway.

"It has been a dark business this night, Lieutenant," Master Farhad said softly and with more weariness than Athos expected from the seemingly indefatigable man, "But I have gratitude that you brought these torn bodies and souls to me to tend. They would not have fared well at the hands of the sisters of St. Helene. The god of your land does not look well on the defiled."

"And yours does?" Athos snapped, the words more harsh than he intended.

"No. No," Farhad said, a sadness coloring his normally bright eyes, "I mean to say that Master Aramis and I . . . we both have in common an understanding," Farhad seemed to search for words, "Healing arts are a gift from a Holy God and we are but vessels to bring His mercy forth in the world," Farhad hung his head, contrition for his earlier words evident in his demeanor. It had not been an easy night for any of them.

"How do your patients fare?" Athos's question was mild, holding no malice toward the man who had been working tirelessly with them since their arrival at the garrison two days ago.

"Most are asleep or at least quiet, not overly troubled by injury and most in need of food, rest and care. They long to be reunited with their families. There are three who are more grave and I fear for their recovery. Two were victims of the same cruel attentions that Master Porthos was subjected to and I worry for their hearts more than their bodies in this," Master Farhad did not have to say that was also his main concern for Porthos. All of them were concerned with Porthos's recent behavior and what it said about his state of mind.

"And the third?" Athos prompted.

"Friend Aramis sees to her now," Farhad replied, nodding over to where Aramis had finished with the salve and was now laying damp linen strips over the open slashes, "She is badly wounded. Whoever wielded the lash was not the expert at it and has caused her grave damage. We do not know if she will last to the next night." Athos gave a nod in response and D'Artagnan shifted uncomfortably, turning his head so has to obscure his face from his friends. It galled them all to think of losing more people to this ugly business.

"But I must now inquire of you, Lieutenant," Farhad said, placing a gentle hand to Athos's elbow. "Is this not blood I see upon your sleeve?" Athos glanced down and recalled the wound he had taken across the forearm at the beginning of the skirmish. It throbbed dully now, forgotten in the night through the focus of an experienced soldier used to pushing past minor injuries. Athos had wrapped some linen about it when they had returned to the garrison, but Farhad was right that it needed proper care to heal well and not infect.

"It is minor," Athos replied, "We can tend it in our rooms."

"Go then and I will send you Master Aramis with bandages and sutures," he passed a knowing look to Athos, "It is far time that he rests and recovers as well. He is not so far from his own injuries and this night has been too long already. I will stay here and watch over our charges."

Athos nodded his thanks to Farhad and put a hand to D'Artagnan's arm to signal they should leave. D'Artagnan looked up at him owlishly, blinking either sleep or tears from his eyes as he looked at Athos in curiosity. He had been lost in his own thoughts, not hearing Farhad's dismissal of them.

"Come," Athos said quietly, taking D'Artagnan by the arm, "Let us retire and see to Porthos."

D'Artagnan gave a small nod and did not resist when Athos lead him from the infirmary. Athos kept a strong grip on their young recruit as they made their way up the stairs to their shared lodgings. D'Artagnan was not injured, nor was he particularly unsteady, but Athos found some comfort in having the boy firmly in his grasp and knowing that for one of his men at least, companionship and some sleep was likely all he would need to be made whole again. He was not so certain of Aramis although he knew the time in the infirmary would have done much to both soothe his anger and exhaust his tension. For Porthos, he was uncertain as to what they would find upstairs although Corporal Durand had said the man had remained subdued and unresponsive the entire time they had been away.

The room was warm and filled with the ruddy glow of firelight and candles. Athos made a note to mention his appreciation of Corporal Durand's attentiveness to Captain Demont. The young soldier it seemed had made their care and comfort his personal mission. A platter of bread and cheeses was on the table in the common room, along with three bottles of wine and some cups. Athos and D'Artagnan immediately began to strip off their weapons, hanging sword belts on the backs of one of the chairs and laying their spent pistols on the table. The weapons would need to be tended to but it was a task that could wait until morning. Athos spied the pile of Aramis's gear on a chair by the hearth and wondered if he would be able to convince the marksman of that.

Stripped of his weapons, Athos began to undo his doublet as he moved into the doorway of Porthos's room. A fire burned there as well and Porthos lay on his back, his chest swathed again with strips of damp linen. Athos approached quietly and laid a gentle hand to the bandages covering the brand. They were still damp, indicating the poultice had been changed recently. He was grateful to hear Porthos's easy, steady breathing and hoped it was a sign of the deep rest he so sorely needed. He was glad to not have to disturb him to tend his wounds and hoped an uninterrupted night of sleep would help improve his spirits. Athos silently slipped from the room, pulling off his doublet and dropping it over the back of his chair with his weapons. He was glad too of the respite from having to manage Porthos's tumultuous emotions.

"Your arm," D'Artagnan said, indicating the blood-soaked sleeve of his shirt, "You should have told me."

"It's fine, already wrapped. Aramis will tend it shortly," Athos answered. The Gascon was still in his leathers, standing wearily with hands resting in the back of the chair where he had deposited his weapons. Athos stopped himself from rolling up his sleeve as D'Artagnan was likely to protest at the sight of the bloody bandages he had wrapped around it and insist on taking care of it himself. Instead, Athos uncorked one of the bottles and poured out two cups of wine. Handing one to D'Artagnan, he settled himself into one of the chairs, gratefully taking a deep swallow of the rich spiced wine. Athos finished his cup and reached to pour a second but D'Artagnan still stood there, wine untouched.

"What?" Athos asked not unkindly but with a raise of his brow that indicated he expected an answer.

"This day. Those women," D'Artagnan seemed to be searching for what to say. He sighed and seemed to remember the cup in his hand and took a long swallow. "I don't understand how anyone could do that to another person," D'Artagnan put the cup down and started to undo his doublet, "But to a woman. Held helpless," D'Artagnan looked up at Athos, confusion and sadness playing across his face, "Even an enemy I would not treat as such," D'Artagnan gave a small shake to his head and polished off his cup of wine, then finished stripping off his doublet, "I'm sorry," he said sheepishly, taking great pains to carefully fold his leathers over the back of the chair, "It's just too much tonight."

Athos spared his protégé a smile, "That is what will make you a great Musketeer. Many think soldiers crave the brutality, but the finest ones abhor it. You do us credit by your compassion." D'Artagnan nodded at him but did not look up from where he was fidgeting with the buckles on his sword belt.

"Get some rest, D'Artagnan," Athos let the notes of command creep into his voice, "You are beyond exhausted and tomorrow is likely to prove as long a day as this." D'Artagnan nodded and sighed, running a hand through his unruly hair. The Gascon looked around uncertainly, not sure which of the rooms he should take for sleeping.

"Stay with Porthos," Athos suggested. "You have tended him well and your presence will be a comfort should he have need." Athos's words were rewarded by the glow of pride that washed over D'Artagnan's face at his words. He knew the Gascon was still struggling with needing to prove his own worth to the three longtime friends and Athos's confidence in him regarding Porthos's care was another step in acknowledging his place amongst them. D'Artagnan picked up his weapons and doublet and made his way into the small room to take up the other bed.

Athos poured himself another cup of wine. There were too many thoughts crowding in his head. Too much worry for his companions and not enough quiet space in which to consider things. Wine would have to do to soothe his own turmoil. He was just opening the second bottle when Aramis made his way into their room, bearing an armful of bandages, his surgical kit and a pot of salve. The marksman deposited his supplies on the table and raised a questioning brow.

"Sleeping," Athos answered with a nod toward the room Porthos and D'Artagnan now shared. He poured Aramis a cup of wine and rolled up his shirtsleeve to expose the bloody bandages covering the shallow slice to his forearm. Aramis flicked his eyes over the wound and then shot Athos a reproving glance at the sloppy care he had taken. Athos shrugged and a light smile played over his lips. Really what else was he to have done given the time and circumstances? Aramis tsked but his eyes were gentle as he moved to fill a basin with water. Bringing that back to the table, Aramis pulled a chair around to face Athos and took up his wrist to place Athos's arm across his lap. Aramis quickly undid the soiled bandages, dropping them to the floor. He inspected the wound, gently sponging off the dried blood with a damp cloth. He hummed and sighed but didn't seem overly concerned. Keeping hold of Athos's wrist, Aramis reached for the cup of wine and downed two big gulps before unceremoniously dumping the rest over Athos's wound. Athos hissed at the burning of it and Aramis smirked his eyes suggesting that Athos's pain would earn no sympathy from him. Suffering was penance for hiding the wound.

Athos used his free hand to pour them both more wine while Aramis prepared needle and thread. While the slash was long, most of it was not deep and only the portion nearest his wrist needed suturing. Athos could tolerate it. He was the most stoic of all of them when it came to injury but he also knew that Aramis would be swift and his fingers sure. It was hesitation that caused the pain in stitching and confident hands made all the difference. With nothing more than a look Aramis signaled Athos he was ready to begin and Athos gave a slight dip to his head. The stitching would not interrupt his drinking.

Aramis was quick with the stitches but gentle in his touch. He stopped a few times to wipe the blood that welled from the sutures or to take another swallow of wine. Despite being on the receiving end of Aramis's needle, Athos found a comfort settling over him. This exchange was old and practiced. Done for each other a hundred times over in the course of their long years of friendship.

"It feels good to at least be stitching an honest wound," Aramis said breaking the silence as he neared the end of the row of suturing along Athos's arm. Athos set down his cup to brush his fingers lightly against the bandage on Aramis's own wrist.

"Are you saying my wound has more nobility than this?" Athos asked, a slight question in his arched brow.

"I mean this is a battle wound, it's just . . . cleaner somehow," Aramis said as he tied off the last knot and broke the thread.

"Both injuries were earned with honor," Athos said while Aramis took up the roll of bandages, "But yours also came with self-sacrifice. I think that makes yours far nobler."

"That is a big admission coming from a Comte," Aramis said with a smile.

"Being the resident expert on nobility, I think the case is then closed," Athos quipped back. Athos watched Aramis's nimble fingers as they wrapped the cloth strip neatly along his forearm.

"How is our young Gascon faring?" Aramis asked as he worked.

"He is shaken," Athos said with a sigh, "I forget sometimes how sheltered he was growing up in Lupiac. Man is capable of far more cruelty than D'Artagnan has ever imagined. He will be unsettled for a long time I think."

"Should I talk to him?" Aramis asked as he finished the wrap and tied a neat knot at the base of Athos's wrist. "Being the resident expert on whores," Aramis echoed, a playful shine to his eyes. Athos smiled lightly at the jest.

"He'll ask someone when he's ready I think," Athos replied, "Hopefully one of us and not Madame Bonacieux," Athos added with a chuckle, "That is a conversation bound to go poorly."

"At least we've put the boy off any notions he may have had about whoring," the marksman said with a smirk.

"For now," Athos said returning a smirk of his own, "Come, let us see to your back. And I should re-bind your ribs before we go to sleep."

Aramis sighed and nodded, weariness pulling at the corners of his eyes. "I should check on Porthos," he said, gathering up his supplies.

"Already done," Athos told him taking up the last bottle of wine, and propelling Aramis toward the doorway of the other bedroom, "You can have your way with him tomorrow." The double entendre was not lost on Aramis and he rolled his eyes in response but did not resist Athos's push toward their waiting beds. Athos lingered long enough to snuff the candles. He stood quietly in the darkened room listening to the comforting sounds of D'Artagnan's light snoring and the soft swish of cloth and the creak of the cot as Aramis made himself ready for bed. It all felt so normal and Athos hoped that it would stay that way come morning.

* * *

Porthos had remained quiet when they returned to the room. He let the hushed voices of Athos and Aramis wash over him and bathed in the soft sounds of the Gascon sleeping in the room beside him. There was some part of him that found reassurance in their presence, in knowing he was finally and truly safely ensconced under the watchful eyes of his brothers. He had longed for this during his captivity. Their voices had sustained him in his darkest hours, their presence had been as real to him then as it was now. He should be comforted, he should find solace here in their warmth. But something dark and ragged tore at him.

Porthos raised his right arm to lay his hand over the bandage on his chest. The mark over his heart ached cruelly and refused to let him take a moment's rest. Each throb of the wound reminded him that he was less now. He was marked as chattel – as less than an animal. And he had become that. He had been stripped and beaten, he had been fed like a pig from pan, had begged for the lash in exchange for water. He had stopped fighting, stopped trying to escape. He had sat in chains with his head bowed as she cut him, stitched him, scarred him. The mark on his breast was no more than he deserved. It was the sign of his shame and no matter how deeply he longed for the comfort of the brotherhood he once had he knew he was no longer worthy of it. He was weak and he was small and the sign on his flesh said he was no longer even his own man. Tears fell again, leaking silently down his cheeks. Despite the presence of the men he most loved in this world, Porthos found nothing but despair in the darkness surrounding him. He pressed his palm into the bandage, feeling the pain of the burn flare. For him, there would be no healing.


	27. Chapter 27

_A/N: Sincere apologies for the long delay in posting this chapter. The school year starting back up left me little time for writing and this chapter itself presented a lot of challenges. Healing is a crooked path and I am finding this to be the most difficult part of the story to write. Thank you for sticking with me. I will try to be on track with my weekly updates going forward. My deep gratitude as always to Issai for her patience, encouragement, and expert beta-reading skills. I claim full ownership of the mistakes._

* * *

Porthos was abruptly pulled from sleep by the feel of hands on his body. He forced his eyes open, blinking through sleep and the sear of bright light as he blindly groped at whoever was trying to pin him down. He got one hand around a wrist and tried to use the other to push himself upright.

"Porthos! Easy, easy. I didn't mean to wake you," the voice was familiar and clear. Porthos froze, breathing heavily but didn't loosen his grip on the wrist he held as the last shrouds of sleep slipped from his mind and his eyes finished adjusting to the morning sunlight.

"D'Artagnan," Porthos breathed as his racing heart calmed. Porthos let himself fall back onto the bed as he released him.

"I was just checking the poultice," D'Artagnan explained.

"Shoulda told me," Porthos settled a dark gaze toward the young man now looking sheepish as he sat on the edge of the bed.

"I'm sorry," D'Artagnan said, "You have not woken before."

"You in the habit now then?" Porthos felt his anger rising, "Don't need to ask me what I want?"

D'Artagnan looked confused and licked his lips as if hoping to find there the words to form a response. He sighed softly and dipped his head slightly. "I have been tending this while you slept and trying not to disturb your rest," D'Artagnan sounded contrite, "I didn't realize you were feeling better. I should have waited until you were awake."

D'Artagnan's contrition and worried eyes immediately quenched the fire of Porthos's anger. He was being unkind. D'Artagnan had been by his side for three days. Changing bandages, helping him eat, worrying over him. Porthos had no right to mistreat him. Had he not longed for respite and care from his tortures and was not D'Artagnan giving him just that?

Porthos sighed, "Ya just startled me. Go 'head."

D'Artagnan gave him a thin smile and shifted his hand back to the bandages he had been removing from Porthos's chest. He carefully peeled back the layers, then lightly washed the dried remnants of the herbal paste from Porthos's mending skin. Porthos turned his head away, gritting his teeth against the flare of pain despite D'Artagnan's gentle touch.

"How's it look?" Porthos asked, unsure of what answer he wanted to hear.

"Much better," Porthos could hear the smile in D'Artagnan's voice, "It may be time to leave this uncovered. I'll have to ask Master Farhad."

"What's it like?" Porthos said softly. He felt the fear rising in his throat. He had not looked at, truly looked at the mark he would bear the rest of his life and now that he was alert enough and it was uncovered, he found himself unable to turn his head. If he never laid eyes on it, perhaps he could believe it was not there.

"The wound is less violent," D'Artagnan's response was soft but calm. Porthos thought D'Artagnan might talk to a skittish horse in just such a voice, "The red is fading and the new skin is taking hold. The skin around it is not pulling. It will heal well."

"What does that mean?" Porthos felt tears stinging his eyes as a fresh wave of deep despair washed over him, "How does this heal well, D'Artagnan?" His voice broke on his friend's name and he couldn't help the tears that slipped from beneath eyes squeezed tightly shut.

"It heals well when it stops paining you. It heals well when it does not hinder you in battle," D'Artagnan sounded confident, none of the doubts that plagued Porthos preventing his simple honest answers, "It heals well when you forget it is even there." Porthos shifted on the bed, turning his head toward D'Artagnan to catch his friend's earnest brown gaze.

"What if I can never forget?" Porthos asked. D'Artagnan pursed his lips but did not break eye contact with Porthos. Porthos could see his young friend searching for something to say and felt guilty for asking him for an answer that he could not give. He was surprised when D'Artagnan gave him a knowing smile.

"We all have scars," D'Artagnan said with a shrug, "Do you think about them each time you draw your sword or fire your pistol? Has the scar over your eye stopped you from winning a card game? It hurts now, but it will just be part of you eventually."

"This is different," Porthos's voice was gruff, "And you know it."

D'Artagnan's eyes dimmed and his smile faded but his voice was unwavering, "Not to me, Porthos. It is a sign of courage and honor, like any other mark you bear. You are the bravest man I know." D'Artagnan ducked his head sheepishly at his heartfelt words and Porthos was struck by the depth of his youthful sincerity. D'Artagnan truly believed everything would settle, would be normal again, and Porthos did not have the heart to rip that comfort from him. He reached up and again caught D'Artagnan's wrist in his hand, but this time the grip was gentle as he gave it a reassuring squeeze.

"Cover it back up, 'eh?" he heard himself almost plead. D'Artagnan nodded and his other hand gave Porthos's shoulder a squeeze in return. Then he busied himself with dampening another bandage and laying it in place over the brand. He did not reapply the poultice and Porthos worried that what D'Artagnan had said was true – it was healed enough now to need exposure to light and air. He was going to have see it and he wondered what new wound that would rip open in his already troubled heart.

* * *

The smell of hot porridge and fresh bread pulled Porthos from the light doze that had overtaken him after D'Artagnan left. Porthos's stomach responded with a loud groan which generated a small laugh from the doorway. Porthos turned his head to see Aramis leaning in the door frame, an indulgent smile on his face.

"The moan of your hungry stomach is a sound I have much missed, _mon ami_ ," the marksman said warmly. He took three easy strides to stand by Porthos's bedside. "Would you join me for breakfast?"

"I'm not to be fed gruel from a cup like a mewling calf?" Porthos said bitterly. He immediately regretted it as he watched the smile fall from Aramis's face. He felt at war with himself – he was grateful for having been saved from the hell of the last two weeks but something about Aramis's attentions pushed at a growing darkness in his heart.

"You are not to be fed at all," Aramis said quietly, "You are ready to be out of this bed and to sit at table and have breakfast."

Porthos was hungry and Aramis was right that he was more than ready to be done with the bed. He'd spent three days sleeping off the sheer physical exhaustion left from the grueling week he had endured. For the first time in days, he felt like his body again had the will to move and the smells of fresh food were enticing. But even as he considered getting up, he found a heaviness creep into his limbs and press into his chest. The mark on his chest throbbed. He could not do this.

"I'd rather eat here," Porthos answered, turning his head away to look at the wall as he fingered the edge of the damp cloth D'Artagnan had left draped over his wound.

"It would be better for you to be out of bed," Aramis answered, a note of authority creeping into his voice.

"What would be better would be for you to leave me alone," Porthos snapped. He heard Aramis's small exhale of breath and knew his words had landed like a blow to his friend. Porthos felt tears rising to his eyes. Aramis deserved better from him but he was ashamed to admit his fear even to his closest friends. It was far easier to retreat than to face his shame.

He heard Aramis move elsewhere in the room, opening the one cabinet in the room and shifting a chair or stool. Porthos had hoped Aramis would just leave but knew it unlikely he would without first returning with more medicine. At least that would dull his mind and dampen his emotions. He could return to the lethargy and half stupor that so far had kept his thoughts fuzzy and his fears at bay. Porthos was surprised when Aramis returned to his bedside, not with a cup and a roll of bandages but a pale blue shirt, breeches and a pair of braces that he dropped on the bed at Porthos's feet.

"I won't force my company on you," Aramis said curtly, "But I will leave you dressed and sitting upright or I will not leave you at all."

Porthos turned his head to level a cold glare at Aramis and was met with a dark determination that he had seen many times in the marksman's eyes – usually right before he shot someone. Aramis was not going to back down, no matter how difficult Porthos was being. Porthos felt the anger drain as quickly as it had flared. It had been Aramis's voice through his ordeal who had promised respite and healing. Aramis whose body bore the wounds from his rescue. Aramis who had stitched over her handiwork and replaced her mark with his. It was not Aramis's fault that the brand was beyond his skill.

Porthos nodded, acquiescing to rising from his bed. Porthos shifted and forced the blanket from his legs, then pushed up with his arms to get himself upright. He couldn't help but wince as his motion pulled at tired muscles and stretched his healing flesh.

Aramis had his hand in Porthos's grip before Porthos could ask, pulling him to a sitting position as his other hand supported his back. Porthos hissed as even that gentle touch brushed against the healing lash marks as he clutched his other hand to his breast, holding the cloth in place over the brand. He let Aramis support him as he swung his feet to the ground, never letting his own hand fall from his chest. He could feel the ridge of the mark against his fingertips through the thin linen fabric. His breath caught in his throat and Porthos fought to just stay still and not curl back into a ball. This couldn't be happening. This couldn't be his life now.

"I'll bind that for you," Aramis's tone was soft but not overly emotional as if he knew that too much fussing might shatter Porthos right now. He might have said the same to any soldier under his care. Aramis produced a roll of linen bandages from the bedside table and began loosely winding the long strips across the cloth and over the opposite shoulder. Porthos only moved his hand away when he knew the cloth was secure enough not to fall. Aramis finished the work efficiently, tying a neat knot at Porthos's right shoulder without having even asked to check the wound. Porthos hung his head. Aramis knew as well as he did that the bandage was not necessary yet had said nothing.

"Thank you," Porthos said gruffly, not able to look Aramis in the eye. He got a quiet hum as a response then the blue shirt was in his hands. Porthos shook it out and found the bottom edge then tried to raise his arms to get the shirt over his head. He exhaled in pain as the cuts and lashes on his chest and back protested the motion. Aramis was there without a word, lifting up the shirt and easing it over his head. He helped Porthos to slip his arms inside but allowed Porthos to manage the majority of it himself.

Porthos knew that Aramis was trying to be kind, to let him feel that something was still under his own control but in truth that was not what was bothering Porthos. It was the dull throbbing on his chest that seemed to radiate heat and pulsate like a living thing seared onto his body. No shirt or coat, not even his leathers, would keep this mark hidden. It would never be enough to hide the truth that Porthos was property.

Aramis distracted him from his thoughts by handing him a pair of breeches. The breeches like the shirt were not his, they were soft and worn and slightly too big. Someone's cast-offs. Putting them on went better than the shirt, but when he stood to pull them over his hips his head swam and the room spun. He might have pitched over if not for Aramis's steadying hand on his shoulder. It took just a moment for the room to right itself.

"I'm a'right," Porthos muttered, eyes remaining on the floor. The hand gave a gentle squeeze to his shoulder before releasing him. Porthos struggled a little with the unfamiliar clasps on the breeches, but although Aramis hovered near, he did not offer assistance. The pants were too big at the waist and knees but Porthos felt less vulnerable now that he wore more than just a pair of borrowed braes. He held out his hand for the braces, but Aramis hesitated.

"I'm afraid they might not be the best thing given the injuries to your chest and back," Aramis explained.

"Let me try at least," the comment came out with more of a bite than Porthos intended but everything was colored right now by the pain throbbing with his every heartbeat.

"As you wish," Aramis said, putting them in Porthos's outstretched hand with no sign of malice or frustration. Porthos managed a nod of thanks at least, not able to trust what his voice might next give away. Porthos clasped them at the front, but the back was just too hard to reach given his injuries. Aramis again came silently to his aid, easing the straps over Porthos's shoulders and slipping the buttons through the loops at the back of the breeches. Aramis stepped back around gave Porthos a look up and down.

"Not quite fit for King Louis, but it will do for breakfast," he said with a friendly smile. In spite of himself, Porthos felt himself smile in return. Aramis's overtures were difficult to resist.

Porthos walked on his own to the small table in the common room, surprised that he felt so steady on his feet. A week of captivity followed by the days he had spent recuperating had left him feeling sapped of strength and frail of limb. He would need to move more if he was to regain his strength but that would mean leaving more than his bed. He'd have to leave the room and Porthos didn't know how he could.

Porthos slipped into the chair and looked at the food on the table with relish. He was surprised he had an appetite given his dark mood, but his body was reacting and his stomach was rumbling. He needed food regardless of how he felt about it. Aramis followed him from the bedroom but instead of taking a chair himself, made his way toward the door.

"Aramis," Porthos said before his friend's hand could reach the handle, "Stay. Please." Porthos saw Aramis's shoulders stiffen slightly at his words and he could not blame him if he left regardless of Porthos's plea. Porthos knew he had made it clear earlier that Aramis's presence was not welcome but now as he was faced with being alone he suddenly couldn't bear it. It took only a moment though for Aramis to relax and turn back to Porthos. The marksman gave him a nod and joined him at the table, reaching to pour each of them a cup of ale while Porthos moved to take up a bowl of porridge. It should not be this difficult eating together and Porthos tried to calm his stormy mind as he gave his body its first real meal in two weeks.

They ate in silence but it grew from awkward to companionable as they both took respite in the comfort of a familiar experience. Porthos had to admit his black mood was lifting, the food doing wonders toward making him feel more whole and more content. It was something he had learned in his past, growing up in the Court of Miracles where food was scarce and you might not know when your next meal would be. It was instinct now to eat well whenever he could, something that overrode everything else even in times of duress or despair.

Aramis pushed himself back from the table and leaned back in his chair, his cup balanced on his knee. "I have to get back to the infirmary soon," he sighed, running a hand through his unruly hair. Porthos considered him for the first time that morning, the lines around his eyes, the stiffness in his motion. Aramis was tired and if he was not mistaken, hurting. Porthos had not asked him about the raid, about who had been saved, if anyone had been injured. Something else to be ashamed of. Porthos gestured for Aramis to pass him the ale.

"Go easy," Aramis said wearily, "Your stomach may not be ready for that."

"Are you watching my food like a horse on its oats?" Porthos said with a dark smile. It was a joke but it wasn't at all funny. Aramis cocked his head, confusion registering on his face.

"I'm concerned for your well-being, that is all," Aramis said, his calm yet remote tone returning. Porthos gave a mirthless laugh as he poured out another cup of ale and raised it to Aramis in a defiant toast. He downed it in one long swallow, set down his cup, and began to pour again.

Aramis straightened up and set his own cup on the table as he pushed himself to his feet. "I'll leave you to it then," he said, slipping his braces back up over his shoulders and rolling up his sleeves, "I'll be in the infirmary if you need anything."

"Boots," Porthos said, as he finished another cup of ale, "Where did you leave the boots?" He was done here. He wanted out from under the eye of his brothers. He wanted to find the darkest spot in the grimiest tavern and drink himself into oblivion. Now that he was out of that bed, he wanted nothing to do with healing or resting again. He wanted nothing except to leave.

"Ah, boots," Aramis said with a thin smile, catching on to Porthos's meaning, "I'm sorry, _mon ami_ , but you are not a small man. I was lucky to find a man in the regiment who could at least spare the shirt and breeches. I did not think you'd be needing to go anywhere just yet. Just concentrate on healing. You will be better soon enough and then we will find you a pair of boots."

But Porthos was not listening. He had pushed himself up from the table and stood to face the window, staring out at the ships docked in the harbor. He knew what men worked those ships – he had seen them in Paris before and here in Le Havre. Dirty, tired men in ragged breeches and torn shirts who worked the decks in bare feet and under the threat of the boatswain's lash. Desperate men, indentured servants, slaves. Aramis was right, he didn't need boots anymore. He needed nothing. He just needed to be left alone.

Porthos whirled in a rage, throwing the mug in his hand to shatter on the wall behind Aramis. The marksman, to his credit, didn't flinch, but his eyes widened as he took the brunt of Porthos's emotional maelstrom.

"Get out!" Porthos screamed, "I'm done with you! I'm done with this!" Porthos yelled as he turned over the table sending Aramis scrambling back out of the way, "I'm done with medicine and bandages. I'm done!" Porthos took hold of the shirt and pulled it violently over his head and tossed it to the ground. He grabbed hold of the linen wound over his chest and pulled. He felt the fabric give and the long strips came away in his hand. He shredded the cloth from his body, pulling at the bindings that Aramis had just placed there and clawing at the wraps around his torso that were protecting the stitches. Porthos pulled off every scrap of fabric until he stood bare chested in the middle of the room, lungs heaving as he took in long gulps of air.

He looked down at the marks lining his body but it was the brand that held his eyes. Perfectly defined by ridges of pink skin was the mark, an upside down Y, that signaled forever the loss of his freedom. He remembered once declaring that man was not a commodity, but no matter how loud he shouted it, this mark said otherwise.

"If you can't heal this, Aramis," Porthos snarled, "Then just get out."

Aramis stood still amongst the debris of the room. He had said nothing as Porthos ranted and he said nothing now as he faced him with an unflinching gaze. Aramis let out a long exhale and Porthos could see plainly the deep sorrow in his friend's brown eyes. They stood in silence for too long and then Aramis took a deep breath and simply turned and left, gently closing the door behind him. Porthos staggered back as if he had been struck by a fist to the face. He collided with the door frame that led to his bedroom and slid to the floor, hands coming around to grasp his knees.

He felt guilty for lashing out at Aramis but he hated him too for pushing, constantly pushing, that he heal, that he rest, that he be better. There was no getting better. No healing from this. Aramis's mere presence was becoming another form of torture as he saw in his friend all the things that had been ripped from him when the hot iron had been shoved into his flesh. It was easy for Aramis to say everything would be better – he was not the one marked as a slave, as a commodity. He was not the one condemned to live as less than a man.

* * *

Aramis closed the door quietly behind him then leaned back heavily, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. The corridor seemed hushed after the scene he had just witnessed and Aramis let the silence envelop him as he caught his breath and stilled his thoughts.

He let out a long exhale. D'Artagnan had warned him that Porthos was troubled about the brand. No one was surprised, but Aramis was not prepared for the intensity of the emotions. How could he prepare though? How could any of them understand what Porthos must be feeling?

Aramis was unsure what to do next. The bandages would have to be seen to, but he doubted Porthos would welcome his presence any time soon. Aramis would send Master Farhad. Perhaps someone not as close would let Porthos feel less hemmed in, less forced to comply with requests for his care. For the rest of it, well he just would have to follow his instincts, much like Porthos and Athos had been forced to do during his recovery from the Savoy mission. There was no road map to follow, they just stayed. No matter how Aramis had pushed, had screamed, had broken into pieces, they just stayed. Aramis could do that at least and he knew Athos and D'Artagnan would as well.

Aramis straightened up and pushed himself from the door, running a hand through his hair and scrubbing it down his face. He needed to get back to the infirmary. He could take over there until Master Farhad was finished with Porthos. But first, there was an errand he needed to run.


	28. Chapter 28

_A/N: I know it has been a long wait, but hopefully worth it. Don't worry, I'm not going to leave this story unfinished! Just overwhelmingly busy with my job. But musketeers are never far from my mind. My gratitude to EnjoyedIt who sends me encouraging notes and to Issai who reads every word at least twice to be sure I am staying true. Nothing would happen without her wonderful partnership as my beta-reader. Thank you to those still reading and reviewing. You inspire me._

* * *

The sun was riding low in the sky by the time Athos and D'Artagnan got back to the Le Havre port garrison. They had been talking with Aramis in the practice yard when the warrants had come from the Governor. While Athos was loathe to leave Aramis behind to deal with Porthos on his own, they were under orders to join Demont's men in seizing the remaining Varade properties. The two musketeers had ridden up the coast with a dozen of garrison's men to Octeville-sur-Mer to take possession of distillery and small estate owned by the family.

Like everything connected to Celeste and Benoit Varade, the mission had been much more difficult than it should have been. They again encountered strong resistance from the mercenaries they employed to guard their holdings and acquisition of the estate became a pitched battle. Demont's men fought well, but Athos felt the absence of Aramis and Porthos as he and D'Artagnan lead a bold frontal attack that finally breached the estate walls and routed the hired soldiers.

Athos sighed and scrubbed a hand down his face, then dismounted wearily, feeling the exertion of the day settle into his muscles. Beside him D'Artagnan was already dismounted, pulling his weapons and gear from the horse with far more energy than Athos had left to put toward the effort himself. Athos gave a wry smile as he turned to do the same. He missed the energy of his youth, but certainly not much else about it. Someone started to loosen the girth band on the saddle and Athos was surprised to see Aramis rather than a stable hand at the other side of his mount.

"How did it go?" Aramis asked casually, but the flick of his eyes taking in Athos from head to toe signaled Athos that the marksman was checking that Athos's fatigue was not a sign of injury.

"Well enough," Athos replied, a dip of his head acknowledging he was no worse for the wear of the day. "For a collection of swords for hire, they fought well together, too well for this to have just been a random group assembled as the need arose. I'm beginning to suspect the Varade's had a private militia."

Aramis raised a brow in contemplation, "To what purpose though? An action against the crown?"

"I have no idea," Athos said, pulling the last of the weapons from his saddle holsters and slinging a saddlebag over his shoulder, "But with the Benoit dead and Celeste on the run hopefully their plans will all come to naught."

"Have you told him about the cellar," D'Artagnan asked quietly as he joined the two men, two pistols gripped in one hand and saddle bags in the other.

"What happened?" Aramis asked as he took up the pistols from D'Artagnan and a stable hand led away Athos's horse. The three men made their way to a table in the garrison courtyard, Aramis's pistols and musket laid out beside dirty rags, gun oil and a small spread of food. The marksman had been waiting for them.

Aramis sat on the bench, setting D'Artagnan's pistols in front of him and taking up one of the oiled rags while Athos and D'Artagnan deposited their belongings on the table. Athos grabbed wine and cups and sat next to Aramis while D'Artagnan clamored up between them, sitting on the table and reaching for an apple. Athos shook his head, wondering where D'Artagnan found the energy to imitate a mountain goat at the end of a long day.

"So what is this about the cellar?" Aramis prompted, looking up from the pistol in his hands to catch their gaze. Athos exchanged a look with D'Artagnan, noting the tense set to his protégé's jaw as he thought back to the events of the day. Athos finished off his wine and reached for the bottle to refill his cup before he answered.

"We found prisoners in the cellar. Eight men and women. Beaten, abused and marked," Athos knew his voice held its typical steady cadence but he felt his mouth getting dry. He paused to take a long drink as if to swallow down the emotions of the experience, "The scars were layers of old and new. One of the men claimed to have been at the estate for three years. They were servants to the Varades – working in the fields, working in the distillery, and working to entertain their guests in whatever depraved manner was demanded."

"My God," Aramis whispered, his eyes narrowing in anger even as his hand sought comfort from the jeweled crucifix around his neck. "Where are they now?"

"With the local parish priest," D'Artagnan chimed in, "He was more than happy to have them and to see the estate closed. He said the atrocities rumored there were the work of the devil."

"Those people were little more than slaves," Athos said darkly, "Minds battered and weak from all that had befallen them from months and years in Celeste Varade's hands."

"What have we really stumbled into? How can people do this to anyone? I would not be so cruel to my dog," D'Artagnan said looking to Athos as he always did for answers and reassurance. It was Aramis who answered though.

"Humans have long inflicted suffering on their brothers," Aramis's voice was quiet but kind, "It is God that heals us."

"I don't know how those people will heal though," D'Artagnan said, picking at something on his trousers, "They have been suffering for years."

Athos shuddered. Had they been only an hour delayed, that would have been Porthos's fate. That or worse as Porthos was a victim of the Varade's desire for vengeance and the poor people they had freed today seemed to have merely been in the wrong place at the wrong time to fall into the hands of the Varades.

They would need to be prepared for more of this as they had four more properties to visit to fulfill the Governor's warrants. Athos poured another cup of wine, then passed the bottle to D'Artagnan.

"How fares Porthos?" Athos asked. Aramis set down the pistol in his hands and sighed, looking over at the infirmary and their rooms above.

"He let Durand clean up the room. He let Master Farhad replace the dressings on the wounds," Aramis cocked his head and gave Athos a thin smile, "He called me a whoreson and a bastard but I took that as a positive sign. At least he's speaking to me."

Athos gave a chuckle in spite of himself, "At least. And what did you say?"

"Well, I told him that regardless of my parentage, it was still lunch time," Aramis flashed D'Artagnan a self-satisfied grin but Athos could see the smile did not light his eyes.

"This cannot continue," D'Artagnan said hotly, brushing past Aramis's attempt to lighten the mood, "For all you have done for him, for all we did to rescue him. He is safe now. His wounds are healing. He has no right to lash out at you, at any of us, for helping him. Would he rather we had not found him because that is how he acts sometimes!"

"D'Artagnan!" Athos cut off the Gascon with low command, "Recovering from this is not something that happens in a day just because you find yourself with a soft bed and a hot meal. He will let us help him when he is ready."

"But you are alright then with letting him take out his anger on us?" D'Artagnan's jaw was clenched as he tried to keep his temper, "Letting him treat Aramis so? How far will you let this go?"

"As far as he needs to," was Aramis's soft reply, "I will not turn my back on him no matter how hard he pushes me away," Aramis stood from the bench, taking up his weapons and cleaning supplies, "Porthos needs our patience and I am of a mind to give him as much of mine as I can." Aramis gave a small nod to Athos and D'Artagnan then made his way back toward the infirmary. D'Artagnan sighed and gave Athos an exasperated look but Athos met him with a smile.

"Athos, this is hardly funny," D'Artagnan sputtered, "This can't go on."

"How much patience do you know Aramis to have?" Athos said, standing up from the bench and offering a hand to D'Artagnan, "Other than when he's contemplating how best to put a musket ball through someone's head, Aramis is the least patient person I know. If I were to wager I'd say things are close to coming to blows."

"You say that like it's a good thing," D'Artagnan said, letting Athos pull him off the table.

"In this case, I think it is," Athos said, picking up the wine cups and handing D'Artagnan a fresh bottle. "We can't help Porthos if he doesn't tell us how and Aramis is just the person to push him into it."

Athos put a companionable arm across his friend's shoulders and led him back toward their rooms. Athos was an experienced enough soldier to sense the tension and crackle of the edge of a battle. He just hoped that when it happened, they would know what to do to put Porthos back together again.

* * *

It turned out Athos was being optimistic when he thought that a confrontation with Porthos would happen anytime soon. The next few days passed much as the first, with D'Artagnan and Athos riding out with the Le Havre troops to shut down the Varade's business establishments and turn assets over to the crown while Aramis and Master Farhad tended the remaining victims rescued from the brothel and tiptoed past Porthos's increasingly darker moods.

Porthos's anger and frustration slowly dissipated into sullenness, withdrawal, and despair. He refused to leave their rooms and sometimes not even his bed, spending his time curled on his side sleeping off the bottles of wine he somehow procured. Aramis had mostly left him to his own devices, letting Master Farhad see to his healing and Corporal Durand bring up meals. In the evenings, after Athos and D'Artagnan returned from duty, they would end up in the small common room quietly talking through the events of the day as they shared a meal that Porthos refused to join.

At first, Aramis had his hands full with the women in the infirmary, helping Master Farhad to restore their health while tending to the more grievous of the wounds. Two of their patients died but the rest became well enough to be reunited with family or to leave the garrison to make their own way to the next brothel or inn where they could at least find employment and a roof over their heads. A few additional people were placed under their care, mostly soldiers wounded in the course of duty but nothing worse than a broken leg to set. By the end of the week, the infirmary was nearly empty and no one remained that could not be tended by the garrison's regular physician.

Aramis was assigned two cadets and under his direction, they were dragging the straw mattresses out to be aired and shifting the wooden bed frames against the wall so the floors could be washed. Aramis, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, was carefully washing Master Farhad's surgical knives, neatly laying the fine silver blades on a clean cloth folded beside the basin. All the windows were open to air out the room and the infirmary smelled of salt and sea.

"That is a kindness you did not need to fulfill, Friend Aramis," Master Farhad's gentle baritone carried in with the breeze from the doorway.

"It's not a trouble," Aramis smiled up at the healer but didn't interrupt his work, "The least I can do."

"The least of things is sometimes the most important," Farhad replied, picking up one of the shining instruments from the table, "The smallest of impurities can cause the worst of disease."

"I admit I was doubtful at first," Aramis said as he worked, "but we have had such few instances of festering that I must think you are right about washing the blades. Cleanliness is a virtue in the eyes of any God."

"As is kindness," Master Farhad said with a slight bow, "Now then, Friend Aramis, what might I do to finish our work here?"

"The medicines can be sorted and restocked," Aramis said with a tip of his head toward the large cupboard against the wall. The well-stocked infirmary had been a boon them all this week and it was best to leave things in as good condition as they had found them. Master Farhad opened the doors and pulled out one of the trays of vials and potions, placing across the table from where Aramis worked and seating himself before the jars and bottles. He pulled paper and ink from his physician's chest and began to examine each bottle, making notes of items that needed to be replenished.

"How did you find Porthos?" Aramis asked casually. A quick glance to Master Farhad showed the insightful man knew the question was anything but.

"Physically, we have done all for him that is required for a return to health," Farhad said, "The last of the suturing should be removed in a few more days but this I believe is work that you are suited to and your familiar presence will give more comfort than my hands again on his person." Aramis nodded his agreement. He was more than capable and experienced in removing his own stitching.

"His spirit I fear remains chained in a tortured place," Farhad said quietly, his typically cheerful outlook subdued by the challenges of Porthos's mood. Neither he nor Aramis had been able to penetrate the dark sadness that enveloped the fighter. Aramis thought he would rather have him turning over tables and throwing things again than the silent overwhelming sadness that was overtaking his normally outgoing friend.

"I know I have asked this before," Aramis said, "but is there not some remedy from your home that can reach him?"

"Friend Aramis," Farhad said with a gentle smile, "You know already that other than the teas and tinctures I have already shared the one remedy he most needs is you and his musketeer brothers. You must be patient. I do not believe he will sink beyond your reach."

"Patience," Aramis smirked, "another of God's virtues although one in which I have been given short supply."

"I think not, Friend Aramis," Farhad chuckled, "Or you would not then be able to put up with my long-winded philosophies." Aramis smiled and started to protest but Farhad continued, "But we have in this a kindred spirit so perhaps that is the gift your God gives you instead."

"Are you implying I talk too much?" Aramis said with a raised eyebrow.

"Only if you are saying the same of my honorable person," Farhad quipped back. Aramis chuckled and they exchanged a grin, talking pleasantly together as they finished their work. The morning passed quickly as the two healers talked on topics ranging from medicines to aphrodisiacs. That the two men had become friends was a bright spot in what had been extremely difficult days. With the help of the cadets, they put the infirmary back together and packed the last of Master Farhad's bottles back into his medical chest. Corporal Durand would see the healer back to his rooms and waited outside ready to help the man with his bags. Ready to leave, Master Farhad extended a hand but instead of clasping it, Aramis grabbed the healer's forearm in a grip he usually reserved for his fellow Musketeers. Master Farhad did likewise, closing his eyes and dipping his head in gratitude.

"Truly my heart swells to say farewell to you as you do to your brothers," Master Farhad said.

"I cannot begin to express my gratitude for all you have done," Aramis answered, "Without your help, I do not know how we could have cared for Porthos." Aramis swallowed thickly, feeling his emotions swell, "Truly, when we speak of blessings you must be counted among them."

"It is an honor upon myself to be so reckoned," Master Farhad said, releasing Aramis's arm and giving him a small bow, palms pressed together and clasped at his breast, "I will continue to pray for Friend Porthos's fullest and quick recovery. Should you have the need, send again for me. I will not hesitate to come to your aid."

Aramis could not help but feel a sense of loss as he watched Corporal Durand escort the healer through the garrison gate. They had spent the better part of a week side by side and the gentle man's medical prowess had been as welcome his soothing nature and friendly demeanor. With Farhad's departure, Aramis felt a restless descend upon him that he had not felt since they had started their frustrating search for Porthos. Restless and helpless. While Porthos was healing in body, Aramis was frustrated in what to do for his heart and mind. He ran a hand through his unruly hair as he made his way back to the empty and pristine room. He would rather face a room full of bleeding soldiers than his silent friend upstairs. At least he knew what to do with blood and broken bones. The pain Porthos bore he could not reach and as each day passed Aramis's own worry grew.

Athos had cautioned him about this though. Aramis himself had little clear recollection of those first weeks after Savoy but Athos had assured him that in many ways, his reactions had been no different than Porthos's were now. Athos continued to preach patience but Aramis had long exhausted his. He was a fighter, a healer, a lover – he was a man of action and every inch of him screamed that he must do something.

Aramis unrolled his sleeves, shrugged on his doublet and fastened his sword belt. He found himself itching for a fight and as he set his hat low across his brow he planned to take his first afternoon outside of the infirmary finding one.

Aramis had only gotten halfway across the practice yard when someone called his name. Aramis stopped mid-stride, putting one hand on his hip in exasperation and the other set to pinching the bridge of his nose. It seemed he would be thwarted even in this.

"What," Aramis said, frustration leeching into his reply. He looked up to find one of the fresh-faced stable boys bouncing in front of him, an awkward cloth-wrapped bundle held precariously in his arms. Aramis squinted at it a moment and then remembered with a smile the errand he had run a few long days ago.

"Ah! It's here!" he smiled, taking the package from the boy, "Thank you, Clement," he said with a nod of his head.

"It's Claude, sir," the boy squeaked, but Aramis was already walking away, heading back toward the infirmary and the staircase up to their shared rooms.

* * *

Porthos heard footsteps on the stairs and rolled over to face the wall, pulling the thin blanket over his shoulders. Whoever it was, Porthos wanted no part. He just wanted to sleep. He curled into himself on the small cot and closed his eyes. As long as he ate, they left him alone. He'd done that. And he had let the doctor remove some of the stitches. The bandage on his chest was gone too, the brand needed open air now to finish healing. Everyone told him he was doing well. They told him he would be alright. He would be on his feet again any day now. He was going to be fine.

Porthos was anything but fine.

Someone entered the room. It was too early in the afternoon for it to be D'Artagnan and whoever it was had a far lighter step. The smallest of sighs gave the man away – Aramis. Aramis come to pester him again about eating, or taking medicines, or letting him check the sutures. He'd given up fighting. He knew Aramis was just trying to help. That his intentions were good. That he was his friend. But Porthos wasn't interested in friends right now. Or eating. Or healing. Or thinking. Corporal Durand had kept him in wine of late and drinking until he could sleep again was about the only thing Porthos wanted to do. He stayed still and kept his eyes closed, hoping whatever business had brought Aramis to his room would be concluded quickly and without his participation.

The small thud of the shutters being pushed open and the light dancing across Porthos's closed lids caused Porthos to let out a heavy sigh.

"What?" Porthos groaned, the word barely formed.

"The day is glorious, _mon ami_ ," Aramis sounded as bright as the sun Porthos felt across his eyes, "And my afternoon free. I could use a sparring partner."

"I'm tired," was all Porthos could think to say.

"You are tired because you refuse to leave these rooms," Aramis countered, "Porthos, come. The garrison is all but empty. It's far too long that you've been cooped up here."

"I'm tired," Porthos said again, but he was becoming anything but. The burning knot of rage and fear that he had been keeping at bay since his argument with Aramis three days ago was again bubbling to the surface. He heard Aramis sigh again, and the scrape of a chair on the floor.

"Enough of this," Aramis had lost the cheery tone yet his voice was calm and controlled. A voice suited to the infirmary or the church, but surprising still for a career soldier. "You must leave this bed, these rooms." Porthos remained still, trying to ignore that Aramis was even there. Maybe he could fall asleep again.

Silence hung between them for a long time. Porthos was sure Aramis would leave, but he did not hear the shift of a chair or the tread of a boot on the wooden floor. It seemed the marksman had decided that Porthos was a target and was simply waiting to take his shot. Porthos shifted uncomfortably in the bed. He did not need or want a nursemaid. He did not need the cheery prattling of Aramis's good mood. He did not need sunshine, or sparring, or anything short of another bottle of wine to put him back into a stupor.

"Go away," Porthos finally growled as the tension rose in his gut.

"That will not happen," Aramis said, steel and determination lacing through his calm demeanor.

"Stay! Go! I don't care!" Porthos roared, throwing off the covers and sitting up in bed. He swung his feet to the floor and buried his head in his hands, scrubbing at his face, "Just leave me alone."

"That will not happen either," Aramis answered quietly.

"Sit there then," Porthos snapped, "I have nothing to say to you."

"I beg to differ," the marksman was cool and polite, "You seem to have much you want to tell me."

"Yes, if it's to tell you to leave!" Porthos pushed himself up from the bed and stood, finally turning to face Aramis, "I've had enough of you poking at me, feeding me, nursing me like a babe at your teat! I'm done with you!" Porthos heard the angry snarl in his voice, felt the rage shaking his hands. He saw Aramis's eyes widen, but the marksman's expression did not change other than to give a slight dip of his head encouraging Porthos to continue.

Porthos fought to contain himself, to put all of that back where it had been hiding so perfectly under the covers with him. Porthos took a deep breath, and clenched his jaw, "I didn't mean that," he said tightly, "but you need to leave, now," he felt the warning in his voice, "Before I say something I do mean."

"By all means, say it," Aramis challenged him, raising a brow and shifting to casually settle back in his chair. "Say anything you want if it will help you."

"Nothing will help me!" Porthos felt something inside him snap and he took a threatening step toward Aramis, "Stop trying to help. To heal me! There is nothing to be done for this," Porthos beat his fist over the brand. "You have tried and you have failed. You can't fix this! Something that broken can't be fixed! Not something rendered into my very flesh. Some things can't be fixed, Aramis! They can't be fixed!" Porthos felt the tears well in his eyes, his voice choking on his own words. Some things, things like him, could not be fixed. The brand could not be fixed. His life as a commodity could not be fixed. Porthos gave a great sob and felt his knees buckle. He dropped to the floor with a cry like a wounded animal repeating again "It can't be fixed. It can't be fixed," as he hung his head and let great tears roll down his cheeks. He thought he might just crumble, collapse to the floor with no strength to ever rise again, but strong steady hands had him by the shoulders.

"A man can be made whole again, Porthos," Aramis said, emotion coloring his voice, "Even if he is no longer the same as he was before, a man can still be whole." Porthos looked up to find Aramis's face before him, the marksman also on his knees. Porthos pressed his lips together and shook his head. No, no, no. He couldn't form the words though and fought to hold back the sobs that threatened to overwhelm him.

Aramis shifted his grip to put one hand to the back of Porthos's head, almost as if he was giving a benediction, " _Mon ami,_ we have you. We have you," Aramis repeated, "You are here and made whole with us at your side as surely as I am made whole from what broke inside me at Savoy. I will not let you falter as you did not let me, but _mon ami_ you must let me help. You cannot hide from this any longer."

"I am not hiding!" Porthos said as he regained control of his tears, "I am not hiding. But there is nothing outside of this room for me. Nothing. My commission is forfeit – the king will not have a man marked as a slave in his musketeers. I can go nowhere that I might not be claimed by someone as property. When I leave this room, there will be no place left for me in France."

"You do not know that," Aramis said, "And you think far too little of us, of Treville, if you think he will let that mark dictate who he will have in his regiment. It does not erase who you are."

"I can't do this," Porthos's answer was clipped. The tears had stopped, replaced by a cold dread of being forced out in the open, exposed for all to see. He was terrified of another collar being fastened around his neck. So terrified he could not continue to face it. "Stop this, Aramis. I can't do this. I can't."

"Cannot do what?" Aramis looked genuinely confused.

"I can't leave here," Porthos's voice had a staccato rhythm as he fought for every word, "I can't leave this room because when I do, it all becomes real. It all ends. My life ends." Porthos was breathing heavily, fighting the terror that was threatening to overwhelm him.

"Porthos it only ends if you stay in this room," Aramis smiled at him, "It ends only if you let it. Come with me, come outside. Find the freedom that you had is still yours. Please."

Porthos shook his head, "I can't." Aramis looked at him in disbelief, his eyes pleading to just let the fear go and follow him out the door. Porthos longed to, he truly did, but Aramis was asking too much of him. It was all too much. He dropped his head to his chest, still shaking his head no. Aramis's hands fell away from his shoulders before he stood to gaze down at Porthos.

"I'm not used to cowardice coming from you," the marksman's voice was cold. Porthos felt his anger boil over like a kettle too long on the hearth as he sprung to his feet to confront Aramis.

"How dare you!" he snarled, "You know nothing of what I had to face." He balled his hands into fists and clenched them by his sides, "I'm not afraid of anything."

"You are afraid of leaving this room," Aramis countered, standing to step dangerously close to Porthos, "So yes, you are a coward. Cowed by a slip of a girl and a few flicks of her silver needle. And here you stay, a 'babe to my teat' as you say, afraid to leave your own bed."

Porthos gave a low growl and a nearly feral smile spread across his face, "Cowardice. You want to know cowardice, find a looking glass!" he sneered, "You think I'm a coward for staying in my rooms? You came back from Savoy a shell of a man afraid of his own shadow. You spent weeks afraid of the dark, afraid of the cold and afraid of ghosts in every dark corner. It took everything Athos and I had to piece you back together and now I'm wondering why we even bothered." Porthos raised his hands and pushed Aramis in the chest, sending him staggering back to bump against D'Artagnan's cot. "All it takes is a snowflake to have you weeping in your bed. So don't talk to me about cowardice!"

Porthos regretted the words the moment he saw them land like a blow. Aramis cocked his head slightly to the side, mouth poised in a small 'O' of disbelief as he blinked his eyes as if trying to see Porthos clearly. Porthos felt the anger drain from his body, replaced by such deep sadness for having lashed out so cruelly, "Aramis. I'm –" Porthos started to apologize, raising a hand to put to Aramis's chest, but the marksman tensed up and shook his head, sidestepping away from Porthos and quickly leaving through the narrow door.

Porthos stood still, shocked at what he had just said to his best friend. The silence in the room was suddenly oppressive, a stark punctuation to the hateful things he had just said. Porthos wanted to go after him but didn't know what he could possibly say. He felt empty. Not the numbness of before, but truly bereft as if a piece of himself had been cut from his own body. He sat down heavily on D'Artagnan's bed, paralyzed by guilt and despair.

Porthos ran a hand through his hair. He was exhausted and lost. Restless for an answer, his eyes fell on a bundle lying on the floor, something that must have gotten knocked over when he had shoved Aramis. He picked it up to return it to D'Artagnan's bed and the soft wrappings fell away. A pair of boots. Fine-crafted of black supple leather, they were etched with a fleur-de-lis pattern and decorated with silver studs. A beautiful pair of new boots that were far too large to fit anyone's feet but his. Porthos held them to his chest, bowed his head and sobbed. What had he done?


	29. Chapter 29

_A/N - Happy to have time to turn my attention back to my musketeers. Thank you for those who are still sticking with it! It's taking longer than I'd hoped to finish this, but I promise an ending before Christmas. My gratitude to Issai who not just makes all of the words better, she reminds me to keep writing :) and enjoyedit, who is a wonderful cheerleader in all things. There are plenty of mistakes in there that I take complete ownership of._

* * *

Athos and D'Artagnan heard the steady, repeated report of a single musket shot echoing through the alleyways even before the Le Havre garrison came into sight. It was a familiar sound - target practice but without the frenzied cacophony of half a dozen musketeers lined up valiantly trying to load, shoot and reload as rapidly as possible. There was a rhythm to it like a clockwork ticking relentlessly on to the next minute. D'Artagnan flashed Athos a knowing grin and Athos gave a nod and a small smile of his own. It appeared Aramis had finally gotten himself out of the infirmary.

They entered the gate to find their marksman positioned about as far from the straw targets as he could be and still be in the garrison. He raised and aimed a long musket, took a single breath, and sent a shot flying toward the bullseye propped against the seawall. Athos's eyes were not good enough to see if Aramis had hit his mark, but as there was no spray of stone from the wall, he knew Aramis had at least found the target.

Athos and D'Artagnan dismounted, unnoticed by the marksman as the steady rhythm of gunshots continued without pause. Behind Aramis was Corporal Durand, two cadets and the stable boys with nearly a dozen long guns leaning on a barrel between them. After each shot, Aramis handed off a spent musket to one stable boy while the other handed him a freshly loaded gun. Durand and the two cadets were reloading guns at a surprisingly good clip.

"How long do you think he's been at this?" D'Artagnan asked as another shot echoed through the garrison.

"Long enough for those cadets to be able to keep up with him," Athos answered with a slight smile, "We might have to recruit them to the Musketeers."

"He has an audience," D'Artagnan said with a nod toward the other side of the courtyard. It was nearly supper time and it appeared that at least half the garrison was gathered near the common rooms to watch Aramis shoot. There was no surprise at the accuracy or shouts of encouragement, but rather the men looked almost mesmerized as shot after shot after shot found the targets. There was something unnatural about a normally boisterous bunch of soldiers staring in rapture at target practice. Aramis's skill was always impressive and his jovial nature usually made events like this full of wine and laughter with coins changing hands as the men placed wagers at Porthos's friendly encouragement. But it was as if a blanket had descended over the garrison, deadening all sound and movement short of the regular rapport of the gun and quieter chaos of the ramrods reloading the shots.

D'Artagnan slipped the reins from Athos's hand, "I'll see to the mounts," he said quietly, brown eyes clouded with a veneer of worry, "I think you'd best see to Aramis," D'Artagnan raised a brow and gave a thin smile, but Athos knew the young musketeer sensed the wrongness of the situation as well. Athos gave D'Artagnan a grateful nod and the Gascon lead the horses to the stable, the soldiers they had ridden with that day following suit. As Athos adjusted his hat Captain Demont broke away from the group of onlookers to stand beside him.

"How did it go?" Demont asked, his gaze still fixed on Aramis.

"The storehouse was abandoned when we arrived," Athos answered, "It seems word has finally gotten around to whoever was still on the Varades' payroll. We confiscated over 80 barrels of wine. The crown will be pleased."

"I suspect King Louis will be kept in his cups well into the new year after the results of this week's work," Demont replied.

"How long has this been going on?" Athos asked, flicking his eyes toward Aramis.

"The shooting? Well, it started over there," Demont gestured halfway up the courtyard, where the men typically set up target practices, "Every few rounds they dropped back three paces. Men who missed three in a row stepped out. Aramis has been shooting alone for well over an hour now," Demont shifted his gaze to Athos, "Is this normal?"

"For him, yes," Athos said with a slight smirk, "Happens when something is on his mind."

"That's a lot of gunpowder and shot to spend on chasing your troubles," Demont said. His tone was matter-of-fact, but Athos heard the order in his words. Aramis had been shooting long enough.

"I'll talk to him," Athos said. Captain Demont gave a nod and headed back toward his men, just as the cook rang the dinner bell. It was a startling noise to the hushed gathering of men, pushing them into motion as they found their voices again and made their way to the common room for the evening meal.

Aramis too heard the bell and following his last shot swept his glance over the garrison, eyes meeting Athos's as the Lieutenant approached. Aramis wiped a hand over his brow and then put the butt of the spent musket on the ground, leaning on it as one might a walking stick. He said something quietly to his squadron of weapons masters and gave a nod toward the dining room. The men gathered the muskets and with a pat on the back or a nod to Aramis they made their way toward the armory, sweaty and tired-looking but all smiling for their part in the musketeer's triumphant shooting.

"You have set aside your needles and potions?" Athos said as he greeted Aramis with a hand to his shoulder.

"Infirmary is empty," Aramis replied with a tired smile, "and I felt I was getting rusty." Aramis nodded toward the straw targets.

"Hmmm, and yet here you stand double the distance that anyone else in this garrison can shoot," Athos said with a raised brow. Aramis gave him an unapologetic shrug. "What of your last patient then?" Athos pursued.

Aramis pursed his lips and clenched his jaw, his eyes dropping momentarily from Athos in a gesture that said he was searching for the right words. The marksman swallowed and then looked up, eyes distant with his own thoughts. "I believe I have been relieved of my responsibilities," Aramis offered.

"I'm not sure he gets to decide that," Athos said.

Aramis gave a mirthless chuckle, "You tell him then. I am no longer welcome."

"What did he say?" Athos's voice was hard.

"Nothing of consequence," Aramis's exhale at the words gave away the lie.

"Aramis," Athos put his other hand on the marksman's opposite shoulder and gave him a gentle shake.

"I called him a coward," Aramis said flatly, "He called me weak. He says he is broken and cannot be fixed. That some things can never be made whole again . . ." Aramis trailed off, tightening his lips together and shaking his head. Athos let out a deep sigh knowing the man was thinking not just of Porthos but of himself. D'Artagnan had been right that there were limits to how much pain Porthos was allowed to inflict on others.

"You know that he does not mean those words," Athos said with a squeeze to Aramis's shoulders, "He does not believe that any more than I do, or D'Artagnan, or any other man who knows you. I think by now you should know this yourself." Aramis let out a long sigh and then smiled.

"You are right, of course," Aramis's tone was resigned but light, "Just sometimes I forget to listen to you."

"Sometimes?" Athos joked, "You are the most disobedient soldier I know. Treville's grey hair is mostly due to you. Come," Athos said, dropping his hands from the marksman's shoulder to take up the musket he was still holding, "The day was long and I'm thirsty. I suspect you are too," Athos leaned the musket over his shoulder and gave Aramis a tug toward the garrison. "How long have you been at this?"

"I started just after the noon bell I think," Aramis said with an apologetic grin.

"Do you feel better?" Athos asked as they made their way toward the common room.

"I feel very little besides exhausted," Aramis confessed.

"Deservedly so. Nearly four hours of shooting," Athos said, "Captain Demont will dock a week's pay just to cover the costs of the gunpowder." He exchanged a smile with the marksman, happy to see it finally reach his eyes. They would have some supper, and a lot of wine, and then Athos was of a mind to have a talk with Porthos. This had gone on long enough.

* * *

D'Artagnan listened to the other men in the stable as he stripped their gear from their mounts and hung up the tack. The soldiers he and Athos had been riding with seemed good enough men. Loyal to their captain, honest in their dealings with the Varade's property. It had not taken much for Athos to earn their respect despite his taciturn nature and they had warmed up to D'Artagnan easily, both impressed with his skill and genuinely enjoying his company. But as he listened to them talking, he realized how little they knew of the men known as _Les Inseparables_.

"That was incredible shooting. I told you the one in the Infirmary was the marksman," Edouard was saying as he pulled the saddle from his mount. Beside him, Pierre laughed.

"A lucky guess," Pierre snickered, "But I heard that he learned to stitch so that he could keep prisoners alive for target practice."

"I heard he shot Henri de Rohan and single-handedly ended the Siege of La Rochelle," Andre offered.

"Henri de Rohan is not dead, idiot," Pierre smirked.

"I heard he's a renegade priest and he practices for the day he will shoot the Pope," came Claude's loud comment from inside a stall.

"Hush, that's heresy," Edouard chided, "Priest or not, he shoots like the devil himself."

"And that's not heresy?" Claude called back to his comrades' laughter.

D'Artagnan chuckled quietly to himself. The marksman was legendary in the ranks of French soldiers, but D'Artagnan had never witnessed the mystique that seemed to follow him. In other times, the men would already know better. Aramis was friendly and approachable – he would have shared meals and wine with the other soldiers and dispelled the most outrageous of the myths and, with Porthos's help, have spun other tall tales, fueling the growing legends of the bravery of the King's Musketeers. Cadets would be lining up at Athos's door looking for a transfer to Paris and the chance at a commission.

"I hear the big one is a mute," Andre said, pulling D'Artagnan's attention back to the conversation, "And the marksman has to talk for him."

"Andre, you can't be a Musketeer and be a mute," Pierre scoffed.

"Porthos is a legendary street-fighter from Paris," Claude explained, "Earned his commission by besting everyone in the regiment."

"I heard he is like a bear in battle. Can take down a horse and rider with just his fists," Andre said, "Bravest of all the Musketeers. But he still hasn't left their rooms,"

"He was sore wounded," Edouard said, "I was there on the docks. Not a spot on him not covered in lashes."

"How do you survive that?" Pierre asked, a sadness tinging his voice.

"Captain Demont said it was his comrades," Edouard explained, "They are brothers-in-arms. Saw the worst of the fighting at Rochelle and afterward. Men change after that, the captain said. They'd walk the ends of the earth for each other."

"I heard they took a blood-oath under a Hunters' Moon and swore that if one died the others would follow him to the grave," Andre said, "And the very hounds of Hell will drag them down if any break their vow."

"Andre, where do you come up with this stuff?" Edouard laughed.

"Everyone knows it," Andre was indignant.

"Everyone knows it" Edouard repeated mockingly, "Come, let's go take an oath ourselves. I plan on finishing off the ale keg tonight and you three are sworn to help me!" The men laughed, making their way out of the stables, D'Artagnan forgotten in their comradery.

The Gascon didn't mind being left behind as he methodically finished currying his horse and moved to brush down Athos's. He had heard other stories, even from within the Musketeer garrison, and it always amused and fascinated him. There was usually a kernel of truth - yes, Porthos was from the streets of Paris and yes, the three had become friends after the siege of La Rochelle – but the rest? Athos, Porthos and Aramis kept the bonds of their friendship to themselves. But it was so strong, so evident, in all they did that it was no wonder that others would speculate about the three greatest warriors in the King's elite guard.

The currying done, D'Artagnan grabbed a brush and hoof pick and started cleaning and checking their mounts' hooves. That D'Artagnan was a part of this group still surprised him at times. In a matter of days, he had lost his father, his future, his family and then found it all again amidst the friendship of _Les Inseparables_. Fighting to save Athos's life had somehow saved his own too. He knew now that Athos bore a pain as deep as his own. He had suffered more loss than one man ever should and had seen the others track Athos's sorrow as they might their own while never asking the source. He had seen the ferocity in Aramis's eyes as he fought to protect them and the mercy as he struggled to heal them. He had found joy in Porthos's generous laugh and comfort in the escapades and scrapes he and Aramis seemed to land in even as he had learned Porthos's mother had once been a slave. D'Artagnan wondered sometimes what miracle he had performed to now belong here. Through his dying words had his father inextricably tied his fate to Athos and the Musketeers? D'Artagnan did not tend to speculate much on what the world served him – he just acted with his heart which he knew never to waiver. He had followed it to Constance. He had followed it to the Musketeers. He had followed it to find his brothers.

D'Artagnan finished with the horses and retrieved their gear from the pile on the floor. The courtyard was empty when he emerged from the stables. He assumed Athos and Aramis were into their first bottle of wine by now. He would stow the gear and then join them, glad for the brief time alone but eager to replace his brooding with companionship and laughter.

Entering their rooms, he was immediately struck by the strong stench of wine. Had he not known better, he would have assumed Athos was on one of his tears. Anyone of them could spend the better part of a day drunk, but with Athos, it was as perfected an act as his swordsmanship. Bottles littered the table, and more rolled on the floor. Wine dribbled from an overturned goblet on the hearth while smashed glass crunched beneath D'Artagnan's boot. Four men could have done this in an evening but D'Artagnan knew it was the work of just one.

Porthos was in his bed, curled on his side, back to the doorway. D'Artagnan sighed and dropped their gear on his small bed. He was as weary of this as he was used to it. Requests to the soldiers not to provide the wine were useless as Porthos was a master at procuring whatever he desired. He considered waking up the fighter, berating him for the mess, for the neglect of himself, for whatever he had said to Aramis this time to drive him away. But he knew he would only be met with silence or with the reproach of the others for not being patient with their recovering comrade. But was he recovering? It seemed like Porthos was slipping further and further away from them each day.

D'Artagnan sighed and picked up a rag. He'd get this cleaned up and join the others in the garrison's hall for supper. They had decided to eat in the with the men they had been riding with tonight to celebrate the last of the Varade raids. There was a brotherhood inherent in soldiering. Over time, could these men be to D'Artagnan what Athos, Porthos and Aramis had become? He didn't think so. It wasn't serving together that made them family, it wasn't glory. It was their pains, their losses, and their unfailing commitment to each other regardless of circumstances. He was an orphan, Athos a drunk, Aramis a libertine, Porthos society's outcast but together they were stronger than what the world had served them.

D'Artagnan stripped off his weapons belts and pouches and shrugged out of his doublet, grateful to be heading for a meal and respite among friends. He dropped the weapons onto the pile of saddlebags and pouches, knowing he would have to clean the blades later. His eyes flicked to the unmoving form of Porthos on the bed opposite, huddled miserably as if to make himself as small as possible. With a gentle sigh, D'Artagnan picked up the blanket from the foot of his bed and let it fall open. He carefully laid it over Porthos, his earlier anger gone. Whatever hurts Porthos had flung at Aramis, he and Athos would soothe them. And then they would try again to reach their brother who had somehow drifted so far away from them. Whatever it took. He smoothed a hand over Porthos's head.

"Rest well brother," he said softly.

Brothers-in-arms. Brothers of the blood. Was there really that much difference because of what ran in their veins? Porthos seemed to think he was someone different now because of the mark on his chest. D'Artagnan could not understand it no matter how much Athos had explained. It was just a mark, just a scar, and they all bore them. There had to be a way for Porthos to learn to bear this one too.

* * *

Porthos heard the door close quietly but waited until he could no longer hear the footsteps in the hall. He had woken from his drunken stupor while D'Artagnan was clattering around cleaning up the mess he had left in their common room. He had been waiting for the recriminations and chastisement, waiting for the fiery Gascon to berate his behavior and punish him for having been so cruel to Aramis. His guilt craved it. He had heard the unrelenting rapport of the musket all afternoon, each shot echoing his own words. He had called Aramis weak. It was undeserved but beyond Porthos's ability to rise from the bed and make amends. Instead, he had Clement bring him more wine and he drowned his guilt with each cup as he listened to his friend's pain echo throughout the garrison.

But no chastisement had come. Rather the young musketeer had draped a blanket over him and lingered long enough to brush a tender hand through his hair and call him "brother." Porthos had bit his lip, fighting tears. His heart was as raw as the healing wound on his chest. Angry, red and tender.

It was unbearable.

He had been thinking about it for days now, but as the last of the sunlight fled the room, Porthos knew it was time. He could not continue like this. Could not continue to bear the pain in his heart nor face what had been done to him. Nor could he continue to lash out at Aramis, at D'Artagnan, at anyone who tried to show him compassion and mercy. Their brotherhood could not survive the burden that the brand placed on his soul.

Porthos rose, letting the blanket slip to the ground forgotten. He moved to D'Artagnan's bed and used the last of the light to find a telltale glint of steel. With a practiced hand, he slipped the blade from its sheath, the main gauche resting in his palm a familiar comfort. For the first time in weeks, he felt as if something was in his control. It was the last thing he had. The last gesture of a warrior's will that he could make. He knew it would not be easy. But he knew what he had to do.

* * *

Aramis was grateful for the brief time alone with Athos while D'Artagnan saw to the horses. It gave him the opportunity to share the events of the morning with the swordsman without having to go into detail about Savoy. He knew D'Artagnan was struggling to understand how he could show such patience to Porthos in the face of the insults and anger directed toward him, but Aramis did not want to tell that story to the young Gascon yet. Aramis admired D'Artagnan's unshakable faith in the strength of the human heart and Aramis did not want to taint that. Eventually, he would know, just as eventually his life as a Musketeer would teach him harder lessons than even his father's death, but now did not seem like the right time. Maybe in a few weeks. The calendar was making its way toward Easter and the anniversary of that night would always lay heavy on Aramis's heart. He'd share that burden with his idealistic young friend then.

By the time D'Artagnan joined them, they were ready for a second bottle of wine. Edouard and his friends had joined them and were happily sharing with Aramis the exploits of the raids and their impressions of both Athos and D'Artagnan. Aramis smiled at their enthusiasm and laughed at the picture they painted of his two comrades. He felt as if he had lost time during his week in the infirmary. As much as caring for the wounded could be a balm to his troubles Aramis knew that he belonged on a horse with a pair of pistols in his hands and his brothers at his side. He was ready to get back to regular duty.

As the dining hall cleared out the three friends lingered. Aramis distributed the last of the wine between them. "How did you find things?" Aramis asked D'Artagnan as he put the last of the bottle in the Gascon's cup.

"Porthos was asleep," D'Artagnan said with a sigh, "or more likely passed out from wine. Bottles everywhere. Looked more like Athos's rooms." The swordsman raised a brow in protest but offered no defense. "What happened?" D'Artagnan looked to Aramis.

"We argued," Aramis raked a hand through his unruly curls, "He needs to get out of those rooms. I just don't know how to do it."

"I could order him," Athos offered.

"He's more likely to resign his commission than listen," Aramis countered with a sigh, "I expected him to be angry after everything that happened. I don't know what to do with his fear."

"I still don't understand what there is to be so afraid of," D'Artagnan was blunt, "It's a scar like any other. No man would touch a Musketeer regardless."

"But not like any other," Aramis explained wearily, "In the wrong circumstances that mark could assign him to a life of slavery and the law would support it. The mark says he belongs to the Varade estate, their property like cattle or a barrel of wine. Technically, he could be turned over to the crown as confiscated goods. Do you not see how deeply this runs? We cannot protect him from a law that says he is property to be claimed should anyone see the mark."

"But who would enforce that?" D'Artagnan pressed, "Who would have the gall to face Captain Treville and demand that Porthos of all people be turned over as property."

"Richelieu," Athos said, voice deadly serious.

"But the King would never allow it!" despite D'Artagnan's squawk of protest, the young Gascon looked frantically between Athos and Aramis, disbelief and worry crowding his features.

"The King likely would never know," Aramis said quietly.

"Then what are we to do?" D'Artagnan's voice held a hushed urgency. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table looking expectantly between his two more experienced friends. Aramis couldn't help but spare him an understanding smile. D'Artagnan's unwavering belief that the Musketeers could fix anything might be naive, but it was also heartwarming. And occasionally inspiring.

"I have some thoughts," Athos said, "But none of them matter if Porthos falls so far beyond our reach that we can no longer help him."

"I'm not giving up!" Aramis's comment came out more intensely than he intended. Softening his tone, he lowered his voice. "I'm not giving up because he would not give up on me, on any of us. He has the greatest heart of us all and we cannot fail him."

Athos reached out to put a hand on Aramis's forearm, "No one is giving up. That is not an option." Aramis turned his head to meet Athos's earnest gaze and gave a small nod of understanding. They were unified in that even though Aramis knew that Athos was concerned now about his wellbeing too. Having been the one to see Porthos the most, Aramis knew he was the prime target for his friend's tumultuous emotions and he knew Athos well enough to know that the lieutenant was not inclined to allow that to continue.

Across the table, D'Artagnan was chewing his bottom lip, eyes distant and thoughtful. Despite his dismay at Porthos's displays of anger and despair, it seemed he too was looking for an answer, not an excuse to leave. Aramis reached out and laid a hand on D'Artagnan's arm, much in the same way as Athos was gripping his. "Your concern for us both is commendable," Aramis said, "But know that I am fine and can and have endured much more than this. Let our focus be on our friend."

D'Artagnan nodded and smiled, acknowledging he would respect Aramis's request. "What do we do though? If Aramis cannot reach him, who can?" Aramis shook his head and leaned back in his chair. Everything seemed to come back to that question. Absently, Aramis scratched at his left wrist thinking about Celeste Varade and all she had taken from them. They had still had no word from _Saint-Pierre_ but little over a week had passed. It was too soon but Aramis wondered if the only way to truly put things to rest for Porthos was for him to see her in custody awaiting the hangman's noose.

"We should tend to that," Athos said, interrupting Aramis's thoughts.

"Hmmm, what?" Aramis asked, confused.

"That," Athos pointed to Aramis's wrist where he was scratching under his sleeve, "It's past time those stitches were out."

"I suppose," Aramis said, noting his own reluctance. He didn't want the wound to scar badly, in fact, it shouldn't given the fine thread he had used, but he had little desire to see the mark on his arm. Unlike Porthos's, his would fade over time, but always a trace of Celeste Varade would be on his skin.

"I'll get some water so we can wash up from the road," Athos said, rising from his chair and draining his cup, "I'll meet you in our rooms."

"Fine. Yes," Aramis said, resigning himself to his fate. Athos was not wrong and he had no logical reason to continue avoiding it. He stood and stretched, his arms and back registering their discomfort from the hours of shooting this afternoon. It was a good kind of ache though; one Aramis had missed.

"I'll clean this up and bring up some more wine," D'Artagnan said as he gathered the cups.

"What of Porthos?" Aramis asked.

"He and I are overdue for a talk," Athos answered flatly but Aramis could hear the edge in his voice.

"He's probably still asleep," D'Artagnan said, "There were a lot of empty bottles."

"Tomorrow then," Athos said, eyes meeting Aramis's in a promise. Aramis gave Athos a nod and left his friends to finish their self-assigned chores. He stopped by the infirmary to get some peppermint salve. He would want to keep the sutured skin supple as it finished healing and at least peppermint had a better smell to it than lard, which his mother had preferred for his numerous cuts and scrapes. He smiled to himself, thinking his mother would not have been pleased at all with the nature of this particular scar. Not at all.


	30. Chapter 30

_A/N:_ _So appreciate hearing comments from everyone :) Thanks as always to Issai for her thoughtful reading and corrections. She only makes the work better. Mistakes are still all mine._

* * *

Thoughts and memories of his mother preoccupying his mind, Aramis was caught completely off guard at what he found upon entering their rooms. He paused in the doorway, mind trying to process what he was seeing.

A low fire burned in the common room, it's ruddy glow the only source of light. A figure, recognizable as Porthos only by size and familiarity, crouched by the fire. Bare-chested and dressed only in his smallclothes, he looked like a wild man from the Celtic islands that Aramis had read of in a poem. He seemed unaware of Aramis's presence, singularly focused on something in his hand that he was holding near the fire. Fascinated, Aramis watched from the doorway, uncertain of what his friend was doing.

Porthos settled to his knees, shifting to reveal a blade gleaming in the flickering light. He raised it up before him, almost in supplication to a God that Aramis knew Porthos was not so certain of. Aramis stiffened, something in Porthos's actions shifting his thoughts from curiosity to warning. Something was terribly wrong.

Still holding the blade before the fire, Porthos took a deep breath and swung the knife toward the brand on his chest. The dagger struck and Porthos howled even as Aramis was propelling himself from the doorway.

"Porthos, no!" he cried, flinging himself across the small room to collide into Porthos shoulder. He knocked into the big man's side, sending the knife skittering on the floor but not before Porthos had set a deep gash into his own chest. "Stop this! What are you doing?" Aramis called out as he grappled to get Porthos stilled beneath him.

"Get off me!" Porthos bellowed, getting his big hands around Aramis's shoulders and squeezing hard before shoving the marksman backward toward the door. Even convalescing, Porthos's strength was considerable. Aramis staggered, catching himself on the door frame. His overtired arms protested the motion and his still healing ribs made his chest feel on fire but adrenaline overrode the pain. Aramis regained his footing as Porthos retrieved the dagger. The big man faced him, panting hard, blood running freely from a cut across his chest.

"Porthos, this is not the way," Aramis pleaded, hands held before him in a gesture of appeasement. "Let me help you."

"It's not your choice, Aramis!" Porthos growled, "I will cut this from me before I'm forced to live someone's slave."

"Stop! No!" Aramis moved closer, looking for an opening to get the knife away from Porthos, "You will maim yourself if you cut too deep. You might never raise that arm again."

"It doesn't matter," Porthos spat, "If I can't be a Musketeer it doesn't matter."

"You can be, you can," Aramis said trying to calm his voice. He took a step forward again, "You _are_. Nothing is changed."

"Everything is changed!" Porthos cried, pain and anger resonating in his words, "I will not be a slave!" he shouted. Porthos raised the dagger again as Aramis lunged at him. The blade missed its mark as Aramis's full weight came down on Porthos's arm, disrupting his stroke. Aramis reached for Porthos's right wrist, trying to get enough of a grip to twist the dagger from his grasp, but the street fighter was in his element in hand to hand combat. With a twist and a duck, Porthos got a shoulder into Aramis's midsection and shoved him further into the room. The blow caught Aramis in the ribs and pain shot through his torso as he slammed into the wall opposite the door.

"Aramis!" the Gascon's cry came from the doorway. Aramis struggled to push himself upright as D'Artagnan charged into the room. Porthos whirled toward the young swordsman, only to catch a fist to the face from the angry musketeer. Porthos staggered and shook his head as D'Artagnan tried to push past him to get to Aramis. Infuriated, the large musketeer let out a ragged cry and caught D'Artagnan by the left arm and flung him into a chair. It tipped back and D'Artagnan went down in a heap, the chair splintering beneath him.

Porthos grabbed the hilt of the dagger with both hands and pressed the tip to his heart, his face screwed up in agony as he sliced into his flesh again. But Aramis was already heading toward him.

"No!" the marksman cried in anguish and desperation. He lunged at Porthos, getting his right hand around the base of the hilt as his left closed around the blade itself. Aramis cried out as the dagger bit into his palm, but he refused to release his grip. Porthos roared as he wrestled with Aramis for control of the dagger now dripping also with the marksman's blood.

Porthos pulled the weapon hard toward his left and the bite of the blade became too much for Aramis to bear. He released it with a howl, white-hot fire throbbing in his hand. Ignoring the pain, he lunged again at Porthos, but the fighter caught him with a knee to the gut and Aramis huffed as the air was knocked from him. Before he could recover his breath, Porthos backhanded him and Aramis slammed into the table, knocking it and himself to the ground along with a rain of wine bottles, cutlery and the leavings from Porthos's supper. Breathless and stunned, Aramis struggled to rise, even as Porthos took a menacing step toward the prone marksman, anger distorting his features into a mask of animalistic rage.

"Porthos, stop!" D'Artagnan shouted as he scrambled to his feet. Aramis knew D'Artagnan was prepared to defend him even as he knew Porthos would plow through the Gascon like an enraged bull.

"Enough!" Athos's voice boomed in the small room. In two strides he was between them, standing protectively over Aramis, sword drawn in warning. "Enough!" he yelled again with enough power in his voice to stop Porthos in his tracks.

"Praise God," Aramis panted before he fell back against the floor, eyes closed and body still.

* * *

D'Artagnan felt relief wash over him at Athos's appearance. Unarmed, he was sure he could not have taken Porthos had he continued to attack Aramis. He had no idea what had happened to set the two friends against each other, but the violent scene he had walked in on was something he had never expected to see.

"Aramis?" Athos uttered the worried question without taking his eyes from Porthos or lowering his weapon.

"I'm fine," the marksman answered breathlessly, although he made no move to get up from the floor.

"Hardly that," D'Artagnan scoffed as he moved to kneel by Aramis's side. He pushed the debris from the table from Aramis's midsection and put a hand to his back to help the marksman sit up. Aramis winced, letting out a sharp exhale and scrunching his features in pain.

"What is it? Your head? Your ribs?" D'Artagnan asked.

"Yes," Aramis breathed, wrapping his left arm around his waist as he panted through his discomfort. D'Artagnan tsked and took Aramis by the chin, turning his face toward him to look in the marksman's eyes. Aramis blinked up at him, but his eyes seemed clear and focused although there was a bruise darkening along his jaw.

"What the hell is going on?" Athos's voice was low and steady, but the threat of his anger rippled beneath the surface. Porthos had not moved since Athos had entered the room and he stood before the swordsman defiantly, dagger held to the side but ready to bring to bear if attacked. Aramis shifted his head from D'Artagnan's grip to stare closed lipped at Porthos who remained equally silent.

"Porthos attacked Aramis," D'Artagnan accused, not bothering to wait out the responses from the two stubborn men. Athos cocked his head and looked over his shoulder, shooting a menacing glance to Aramis that demanded corroboration from the marksman.

"To be fair," Aramis said hesitantly, "I threw the first punch."

D'Artagnan watched Athos's eyebrows shoot up in question, but the swordsman again turned his gaze back to Porthos. "And what reason would he have to do that?" D'Artagnan thought he would wither on the spot had that tone been directed at him.

Porthos's jaw worked as he considered how to respond. D'Artagnan was half convinced he might hurl himself at Athos just as he had at Aramis.

"What reason!" Athos demanded again and this time Porthos could not resist the command.

"It's not his place to decide. It's not his choice," Porthos's anger was barely contained, his voice low and dark, "He should mind his own business and nobody would be hurt."

"I will not just stand by and let you maim yourself!" Aramis countered angrily, "Or wound yourself so badly you might die of it later." D'Artagnan looked at Aramis in confusion but the marksman's eyes were locked on Porthos, his body tensing as he struggled against D'Artagnan to rise to his feet. D'Artagnan tightened his grip on Aramis's shoulders, keeping him seated even as he followed Aramis's gaze toward Porthos. He looked carefully at the large man, taking in the bloody stripes across his left breast.

"You tried to cut it out," D'Artagnan breathed in horror. In front of him, Athos shook his head in disbelief.

"You are a fool," Athos said, "How can you even think that?"

"It is up to me!" Porthos replied, defiance lighting his features.

"It is not up to you and has not been for a long time!" Athos snarled in reply, tossing his rapier aside in disgust. "You take a knife to your own body, you may as well cut Aramis across the heart!" Athos thundered, brushing past any threat Porthos might present to stand toe to toe with the big musketeer. "Is that how you honor and protect your brothers?" Athos shouted, gesturing toward Aramis and D'Artagnan on the floor. With a low growl, Athos twisted the dagger from Porthos's hand. He met no resistance from the fighter and held the blade up between them, "Is this how you fulfill the oath we made? Is it?" Athos demanded.

Porthos stood rigid in the face of Athos's fury but finally gave a nearly imperceptible shake of his head. With a disgusted grunt, Athos tossed the blade from him and then tugged lose the scarf from his own neck. Wadding it up, he pressed it, hard, against the fighter's bleeding chest. Porthos looked pained but did not pull away. D'Artagnan saw something soften in Porthos's eyes as his rage shifted into despair and regret.

"Why?" Athos nearly whispered, "Why would you do this?"

Porthos jaw worked but he couldn't find any words. D'Artagnan saw the wetness well in the fighter's eyes as a lump rose in his own throat. He hated to see any of them suffer, and clearly, Porthos was suffering deeply.

"I can't live like this," Porthos finally said brokenly, turning his head to look away from Athos, "I can't be owned."

"You think you are not already?" Athos's voice was quiet, but the rage was clear, " _I_ claim you. _I_ own you. You are _mine_. And his," Athos said pointing at Aramis, "and D'Artagnan's. You belong to us. And not because of a mark on your chest." Athos shoved Porthos back into the mantle, pushing with the hand that held the scarf to the wound. Porthos let out a pained gasp but gave in to Athos's onslaught. "We were branded on your heart long before that mark was ever made and there is no way in Hell we would ever let anyone else have you. All for one, Porthos. You are ours just as we have long been yours. Body, heart, soul."

Athos's words hung in the air like a challenge. New as he was to this brotherhood, D'Artagnan felt Athos's words strike him at his very core. This was why they were called _Les Inseparables_ – not their fighting skill together, their commitment to honor and duty, their comradery or the legends that grew up around them. It was allowing your brother to take your pain as his, your grief as his, your rage as his and letting it be tempered, healed, honed to something that no longer belonged to just you. Submission of their weaknesses gave them their strength. The strong shoulders of _Les Inseparables_ collectively bore the weight of their damaged souls that none could bear on their own.

Athos was right. Porthos had given himself to them long ago, but would he choose to do so again? D'Artagnan had not felt this kind of despair since he had watched the light die from his father's eyes. His heart ached with grief as the silence between them stretched.

Then Porthos let out a pained sigh and dropped his chin to his chest. He slowly nodded his great head, acknowledging his acceptance of the yoke their brotherhood placed on them. Athos exhaled softly and pulled the fighter toward him in a half embrace.

"I will take apart anyone who dares threaten you," Athos murmured, "Anyone. Lay this behind you now." Porthos nodded again then clasped Athos around the shoulders to return the swordsman's embrace. The tension in the room cracked and dropped away and D'Artagnan felt himself physically relax even as Aramis leaned heavily against his side.

"I'm sorry," Porthos said, finally raising his eyes, "I'm truly sorry."

"No need," Athos replied, releasing Porthos from his embrace and guiding his hand to hold the scarf to his own chest, "No need."

"Aramis . . ." the desperation in Porthos's voice was heartbreaking, but the big man could not finish his sentence. Beside D'Artagnan, Aramis stirred to stand again and this time D'Artagnan helped him to his feet.

"He said no need, _mon ami,"_ Aramis's tone was so kind it nearly hurt. D'Artagnan kept a grip on the marksman's arm as he moved closer to Porthos, but it was unnecessary as the musketeer seemed steady on his feet. Porthos extended a hand to Aramis but the marksman opted instead to give the big man an affectionate squeeze to the shoulder while he kept his left hand awkwardly tucked close to his body. D'Artagnan looked at the odd position the marksman was maintaining and then his eyes widened.

"Aramis, your hand," the Gascon said, noticing the blood dripping from his sleeve. Athos shifted to take up Aramis's wrist, placing his other hand under the back of Aramis's palm to lend the injured and bloody hand support. A look of agony washed over Porthos. If the marksman lost flexibility or motion in his fingers it could spell the end of his shooting career.

"It's not so bad," Aramis reassured them. Slowly he clenched his fingers into a fist and then let out a deep, pained exhale as he opened them again, "See? Nothing important damaged. Just a flesh wound." D'Artagnan caught Athos's eye roll even as Porthos shook his head and pulled Athos's scarf from his chest to press it tenderly against Aramis's palm.

The three hands lingered there, then Porthos looked up at D'Artagnan, his eyes soft and a smile tugging at his lips. He gave a tilt of his head and D'Artagnan took the invitation to complete their circle. He stepped closer, slipping his hand on top of Porthos's. "All for one," D'Artagnan said quietly, locking eyes with Porthos.

Porthos smiled and nodded, then shifted his gaze to take in all of them, "And one for all," he said gruffly, "I swear it. I won't forget it again." The others nodded and they held their hands together, the blood of two of their brothers literally running between all four of them.

"Gentlemen," Aramis winced, "As much as I appreciate this demonstration . . ." He trailed off as he shifted his palm to disentangle their hold. Athos continued to hold Aramis's arm while Porthos began to wind the scarf around his palm. D'Artagnan found his own handkerchief to press against Porthos's bleeding chest.

"Bloody idiot," Porthos muttered as he worked, "Grabbing hold of a blade like that."

"Well, you left me little choice," Aramis retorted.

"I can show you at least five ways you could have disarmed me," Porthos said as he secured the scarf with a knot.

"If I wanted to actually hurt you," Aramis said, "Which I did not."

"Ha!" Porthos's snort was almost a laugh, "As if you could've hurt me."

D'Artagnan felt a warmth wash over him as the conversation between the two men devolved into one of their rounds of bickering. He had missed this. The easy and confident comradery that was their brotherhood.

"Enough, the both of you," Athos chided, although D'Artagnan could see the gleam in his eye, "Sit down somewhere before one of you falls over." Athos gave them a stern look and Aramis and Porthos exchanged a glance, acknowledging between them that Athos was probably right. Aramis gently shoved Porthos toward the small bedroom he shared with D'Artagnan while Athos without a word took ahold of the marksman's arm to guide him into the room as well. With a knowing smile, Athos paused to pick up the miraculously undamaged bottle of wine that D'Artagnan had dropped on the floor while the Gascon went to Aramis's room to retrieve his sewing kit. There was stitching to be done tonight but odds were the wounds would heal, both of the flesh and of the spirit.


	31. Chapter 31

_A/N - Happy New Year, mes amis!_

 _Thank you all for taking the time to leave reviews. You have no idea how much it warms my heart to hear from people. A special thank you to those guest reviewers that I can't reply to personally. Your kindness has carried me through this story. My thanks ever and always to Issai who makes all the wrong things go right, inspires me, and encourages me. This story is dedicated to her. I don't own the Musketeers, but I do own all of the errors I've made along the way._

* * *

Aramis had wanted to see to Porthos's chest himself, but with two able-bodied and capable Musketeers also in the room all he was allowed to do was clean the cuts and assess the severity. There were only two and while one was deeper than the other, they were not nearly as bad as Aramis had feared.

D'Artagnan volunteered to do the stitching, and Aramis and Athos exchanged a knowing glance when Porthos sat docilely on his bed and allowed the Gascon to proceed. Before his ordeal, he would have needed to be restrained or unconscious but now the only sign of his discomfort was the bottle of wine he was quietly finishing off and the distant look in his eyes. This might be easier for all of them in the long run, but to see such a marked change in Porthos was a testament to how deeply his injuries ran. Tonight was a beginning to healing, not an end.

In all honesty, Aramis was grateful for the intervention of the others. His hand injury, while not serious, was painful and the battering his still healing ribs had received had literally taken the breath from him. He knew they weren't broken or even cracked, but bruised ribs were still enough to cause pain each time his lungs filled.

"Are you sure I shouldn't send for Farhad?" Athos asked again, threaded needle in his hand.

"It's five quick stitches," Aramis was adamant that the healer was unnecessary. The cut was short and shallow and had it not been in a place that was frequently moved, it might not need stitching at all. The coarse thread would keep the flesh in place so it would not be easily reopened. Although as Athos placed the first stitch, Aramis immediately second guessed himself. Damn that hurt. It took everything in his power not to jerk his hand away.

Athos was not particularly adept at stitching, but once committed, he didn't hesitant and he made quick work of the suturing. Aramis was grateful when Athos passed him the bottle of wine after liberally dosing the wound in alcohol. He took several long swallows as Athos carefully bandaged his palm. The fingers weren't wrapped, so Aramis could still load his pistols, but use the hand would be limited for at least the next week. Athos retreated after that, in search of more wine, and Aramis was grateful for a chance to quietly regain his composure.

Aramis caught his breath as he sat at the edge of the bed, watching D'Artagnan finish with Porthos. The Gascon was gaining proficiency in his needlework, an unfortunate necessity given the life they all lead. Aramis with the steady hands and iron will of a marksman was by far the best at sewing but the others all had been forced to learn as injury was not infrequent in the life of a Musketeer. Porthos for his part was showing signs of discomfort as the Gascon was not yet quick. Ultimately D'Artagnan looked just as relieved to be finished as Porthos was. Aramis gave the young musketeer a nudge and the Gascon stood so Aramis could take the stool he had positioned next to the bed.

"This is well done," Aramis praised as he examined the needlework. Porthos gave a disbelieving grunt and Aramis chuckled, "I'd have him over Athos if I had the choice."

"I'd rather we didn't have to do it all," D'Artagnan said, rinsing the blood from his hands in a basin of water.

"Indeed," Aramis scratched at the bandage on his wrist again. They all had too many scars already, "This needs a salve and a bandage," he said with a nod toward Porthos.

"I'll get it," after tending to Porthos, D'Artagnan was well-acquainted with the stock in the infirmary. Aramis gave the young musketeer a thankful dip of the head as D'Artagnan left the room.

"The whelp's gettin' more useful," Porthos observed, "Something's changed."

"These last few weeks were hard," Aramis replied thoughtfully, "I think we all changed."

"I'm sorry," Porthos's voice was quiet but he looked Aramis in the eye "I'm sorry for all of it."

"I know you are," Aramis put a hand to Porthos's shoulder, "But you do not have to be. You have done nothing except try to survive."

"It's hard. I don't know that I always wanted to," Now that he was talking, Porthos's honesty was brutal, "I have my doubts even now. What she did was . . . unbearable," Porthos clenched his jaw on the word.

"But you did bear it," Aramis was thoughtful, "Bore more than anyone should have to endure. Your strength puts me to shame. I couldn't . . . after Savoy, I . . ." Aramis struggled to find the words, "You are right. I am weak and I could not bear what had happened. If not for you and Athos . . ." Aramis trailed to silence and he cleared his throat, resuming his comment with a stronger voice, "If not for you and Athos I would still be there, trapped beneath the weight of that day."

Porthos snorted, "You think I survived without you?" He gave an ironic laugh. "You were there, all three of you," Porthos tapped the side of his head, "In here. Talking all the time. Telling me to eat. Telling me to breathe. Telling me to live." Porthos put a hand to Aramis's bandaged wrist, "I was never alone."

"I think it's time we found out all that happened," Aramis said softly.

"Yeah," Porthos said, "Including what is under this bandage." He raised a brow and gave Aramis a determined look, "I know that you did something. I want to know what."

Aramis sighed. He had explained it all to Athos once. He was uncomfortable with what he had allowed himself to do for the sake of Porthos. He did not want his friend to take on more misplaced guilt for what Aramis now bore, nor did he himself want to relive the story of their search for Porthos. He was not ready to confront his own role - his fear, his lack of faith, his battering a man to death, his forced seduction of Celeste, the mark he had carved and sewn in his own skin. There was too much darkness.

"Aramis, I have to know," Porthos seemed to read his mind. He slightly tightened his grip on the marksman's wrist, "I don't want secrets between us. They'll only lead to trouble."

Aramis let out a deep exhale. This was not just his story, it was all of theirs, Porthos's too, and he had no right to keep it back no matter how shameful he might feel about his own part in it. Aramis gave in. "We will need a lot more wine," Aramis said.

"I think that's not a problem," Porthos replied, giving a nod toward the door. Athos had found three more bottles and D'Artagnan was on his heels with the pot of salve in one hand and a wrapped bundle that must have come from the kitchen.

While D'Artagnan finished with Porthos's wound and Athos sorted the wine and food, Aramis tugged the knot from the wrapping around his wrist. The bandage fell away to reveal the neat row of stitching he had placed there himself just over a week ago. No longer angry and red, the flesh around the sutures was pink and new. It itched but the pain had long faded. It was a testament to the power of healing that the body could seal and mend itself and that pain was only temporary. The scar was a reminder that what had been broken could be made whole again.

Aramis picked up his knife to pop through the stitches, but Athos's hand closed over his own.

"I can do that," Athos's eye held determination and Aramis knew it wasn't worth the argument. Besides, Athos was right. No need to do this on his own. He handed the knife to Athos and accepted in exchange a cup of wine. Porthos gave a low whistle as he peered over where Athos sat with Aramis's arm in his lap.

"What happened?" Porthos asked.

"Did it to myself," Aramis answered. He watched confusion flush across Porthos and D'Artagnan's faces.

"Why would you do that?" D'Artagnan's brow wrinkled with worry

"Because I'd do anything for a brother," Aramis said. Athos gave a tug and as the silk thread pulled free of his healed flesh, Aramis felt the last of his self-doubt falling away.

"I think we should start at the beginning," Athos suggested as he returned Aramis his dagger. He gave Porthos a pointed look, "Maybe the part where you had been late to muster enough times that Treville was ready to have your hide by the time Aramis and I got back to the garrison?" Porthos cleared his throat, a flush rising to his face. There was much they would reveal to each other, and the night would hold laughter along with sorrow, but by the end of the evening each story would become their story - another part of the legend of _Les Inseparables_.

* * *

Athos was glad he had petitioned Captain Treville for two more weeks duty at Le Havre. The routine of the garrison had a gone a long way toward helping all of them regain their footing while they could enjoy a relative peace with no intrigue from the Cardinal or run-ins with the Red Guard to interrupt their recovery.

With his hand bandaged, it made sense to not force Aramis to rein a horse just yet, and Porthos had a way to go before his body was ready for the long ride back. Captain Demont was more than content to let Aramis and Athos take a lead in training in the garrison and to let D'Artagnan join the ranks. The young swordsman was far superior to the Le Havre recruits and more than held his own against the veteran soldiers. But Athos was responsible for D'Artagnan's development and had no qualms about putting the Gascon back on the tough training regime he had originally set for him.

Besides his men needing more time to heal, Athos had business he needed to conduct in Le Havre. Having been instrumental to dismantling the Varade's businesses and turning the assets over to the Governor, Athos was able to request assistance on some affairs related to his estate at Pinon. While he would have been happy to never call upon his title of Comte de la Fere , in this case it was necessary. It would take some days for the papers he submitted to be approved, but as they were in Le Havre for another fortnight it was not extra trouble to have it done.

Returning to the garrison from the city magistrate's office, Athos was pleasantly surprised to see Porthos standing on the walkway outside of their rooms looking down at the yard, much as Captain Treville would. He watching D'Artagnan spar with Corporal Durand. D'Artagnan was easily a match for the lad, but Athos nodded approvingly at the coaching D'Artagnan was offering.

"He'll be the finest of us all," Athos said, coming up the stairs to lean on the railing alongside Porthos.

"He's got a long way to go before he's near good as you," Porthos replied, eyes focused on the match before him.

"Not as long as you might think," Athos quipped, "He was virtually a force of one when we flushed out the warehouse where they were holding you."

"I'm lucky then the whelp is on our side," Porthos gave a smile.

"Are you ready to join him?" Athos asked, "It's past time you were back to training."

Porthos shifted uncomfortably on the bench. "Tomorrow, I think," he replied

"You said that yesterday," Athos chided gently, "It's time you re-joined the Musketeers."

"I'm out of our rooms at least," Porthos said sighing, "Sitting here is about all I can do though."

"I doubt that," Athos said, his voice serious, "You did not coddle me when you would drag me, hungover, out of my rooms to muster and I will do no less for you. Tomorrow you start training. Think on it now as it will be an ugly sight if the three of us have to drag you into this yard."

Porthos grunted. "Would take more than three of ya," he spat.

"I accept the challenge," Athos deadpanned, yet his eyes twinkled.

* * *

Porthos spent a restless night and rose early, although not so early that D'Artagnan was not already up and out of their rooms. He dressed slowly, careful of the still tender cuts across his chest, the healing lines across his back, the stiffness of unused muscles.

Somewhere Aramis had found him a padded jacket for sparring, and a sword belt that could go around his waist. He slipped on the new boots, pulling the soft, supple leather up over his knee. They were finely crafted, the leather tooled with a fleur-de-lis border along the edge of the folded cuff. Silver rivets were studded along the outer seams, running the length of the boot, and a wide buckle tightened the boot around the ankle. They laced at the inside, below the turned cuff. The boots were the best he had ever owned and Porthos was well aware that Aramis had paid dearly for them.

Porthos geared up, testing the balance of the main gauche and schiavona that had come from the armory. They were fine, serviceable weapons, but not his. Porthos sheathed them into their hangers, then picked up his gloves. He felt far from ready, but he made his way down to the yard nonetheless. He would rather he do this on his own terms now than have to deal with Athos prodding him.

The morning routine in Le Havre was not unlike that of their garrison in Paris. Stable boys already at work in the stalls, inviting smells coming from the kitchens, a rather disheveled young recruit hauling a bucket of water toward the Captain's quarters, and in the center of the yard D'Artagnan going through his practice exercises, sword glinting in the sunlight. Porthos watched the young Musketeer move gracefully through each motion, fluid and focused in a way the Gascon rarely was at any other time. He had received plenty of ribbing from the men when he first started his "dancing" as Serge called it, but Athos had put a stop to it quickly enough by threatening the entire company with joining D'Artagnan if they could not respect the practice of a fine swordsman. Porthos knew the boy's father had taught him these drills, but he had not asked where his father had trained or much about his history as a swordsman.

Porthos felt a wave of guilt wash over him. They had all befriended D'Artagnan quickly but what he had risked for Porthos by going alone to the Court of Miracles, the wounds he had to bear, the care he had taken to ease Porthos's suffering – it was overwhelming to realize the depth of D'Artagnan's commitment to them. And Porthos had never bothered to even once ask after his family. He was ashamed to have been so selfish. Which was why when D'Artagnan paused in his routine and asked Porthos if he would like to join him, Porthos surprised them both and said yes.

D'Artagnan slowly taught him one cycle. Porthos worked with the sword and main gauche, getting used to their feel as he learned the pattern. He felt lazy muscles stretch and found the taughtness in his back ease. He registered small tugs of pain as the healing skin on his body was forced to shift. He felt the slight throb of the healing brand beat in time with his heart. It was awkward at first but as he settled into the rhythm of the patterns, it became comfortable.

Neither of them noticed Athos and Aramis watching from the balcony, nor saw their features relax as a peace, a rightness, descended on them that neither had felt in weeks.

"I never thought to see that happen," Aramis said with a smile, "He looks good, though. Seems to be moving well."

"Porthos is a better swordsman than he allows himself to believe," Athos said with appreciation."

"Perhaps we should let them continue?" Aramis offered.

"I'd rather go down there and kick their asses," Athos's tone was deadly serious but he flashed Aramis one of his crooked half grins.

"I was hoping you'd say that," came Aramis's impish reply as the two Musketeers made their way down the stairs to join their comrades in training.

* * *

After three days slowly working through their usual drills and spars together, Porthos was beginning to feel more like himself. On the fourth day, Athos asked him to work with three of Demont's men on hand-to-hand. He was reluctant at first, not ready to have to interact with the other soldiers or to leave the comfortable circle the four of them together had created. But Athos was insistent and Porthos knew his Lieutenant was right — while fear may have gripped him at first, it was just not in Porthos's nature to give up. He was more than a survivor, he had thrived in dark places since he was four years old. He cloaked himself in bravado and sauntered into the yard, displaying an ease that did not correspond to the fear twisting his gut. It wasn't the anticipated questions or the unwanted sympathy that bothered him most, but that someone might challenge his fitness, his worth.

Porthos's jaw dropped when he saw the three recruits he had been assigned. Athos could not have found three smaller, scrawnier men if he had tried. They were in their shirtsleeves and breeches, unarmed, elbows and legs pointing in all kinds of awkward directions. One of them was trying to hook a leg around the other and take him down to the ground, with complete and total failure at every attempt. The third was looking on and giving the worst possible advice to his sparring comrades. Athos stood with arms crossed, hat low, leaning on balustrade and silently observing.

"Are you joking?" Porthos asked as he came to stand beside his Lieutenant.

"There is nothing funny about that," Athos said with a tilt of his head toward the recruits, "They will be dead on their first mission."

"You think I can fix that?" Porthos asked even though he knew Athos's mind was already made up.

"I don't think they are that bad," Athos's voice was light, "I think Bertrand shows promise."

"Bertrand?" Porthos didn't know the men yet.

"The skinny one," Athos said. Porthos rolled his eyes, they were all skinny.

As the Musketeers watched, the one trying to take down the other finally got his legs so tangled with his sparring partner that they fell over in a heap, taking down the third with them as he failed to scurry out of the way in time.

"You'd best get to it before they hurt themselves," Athos said and without a glance to Porthos he pushed himself from his leaning post and crossed the yard to join D'Artagnan in swordplay.

Porthos sighed. Whatever Athos had up his sleeve by giving him this duty, the Lieutenant was right that these hapless men were doomed as soldiers if their combat skills did not improve. Porthos owed it to them to give them the best opportunity to survive. Just as Captain Treville had fostered his sword work as a recruit when all he had ever done was raise a club, he could not in good conscience let these men down.

"Oi!" Porthos called out, his big voice booming across the courtyard, "What exactly do you three think you are doing rolling around down there?" He strode over to them, confident in his fighting skills if not in anything else, he hoped that would be enough to get him through the morning.

He started with the take-down that Bertrand had been attempting. The others, Marc and Henri, watched as Porthos smiled, put a hand to the small man's shoulder and unceremoniously kicked the recruit's leg out from under him, toppling him to the ground. "Let's start with that," he said, placing his hands on his hips and giving them all a stern look. They stared back wide-eyed. Porthos shook his head. He had his work cut out for him.

Other than demonstrating a move, Porthos attempted at first to do all of the coaching from the side, shouting out instructions that the three recruits tried valiantly to incorporate. But with no real experience to draw from and no natural ability, they made little progress. Eventually Porthos had to get in there and adjust a hold or shift someone's weight. It became obvious that he needed to get into the mix to demonstrate moves and to give more effective corrections. As the day warmed Porthos quickly started to overheat in the padded practice armor. While it was necessary for sword work, for hand to hand all it did for Porthos was hamper his movement and make him uncomfortable.

Exasperated with having explained something to Henri for the third time, Porthos unbuckled the padded vest and tossed it to the ground. "Like this," he growled, getting into a low crouch and raising his fists. "Now come at me," Porthos gestured, tapping at his abdomen, "Try to get right in here."

Henri crouched low, shifted left then right, and then swung out his right fist, aiming for the Porthos's gut. Porthos blocked the punch but smiled. "That was much better. Try again, but this time try to fake with your left before you punch with your right."

Practice started to go better and Porthos got more involved, his reservations falling away as he concentrated on working with the three men. Time moved quickly and they were all surprised when the cook rang the bell for lunch. Porthos picked up his gloves and padding from the dusty yard and made his way to where Athos, Aramis and D'Artagnan were stripping off their gear. All of them were down to shirts and breeches, necks unlaced and sleeves rolled up.

Aramis finished off a dipper of water then refilled it from the bucket on the table and passed it to Porthos. "Who won?" Aramis asked as he pushed his sweaty dark curls from his forehead.

"Well I wouldn't want any of 'em in a bar fight," Porthos said, "But Henri and Marc could take on some of the Red Guard."

"That's not saying much," D'Artagnan said before taking his turn at the water.

"That's an improvement though," Porthos responded, "I wouldn't have bet on them against your grandmother at the start of the morning."

"It happens my grandmother had a mean right hook," D'Artagnan said indignantly.

"Too bad you didn't inherit it," Aramis teased.

"Her punto reverso was probably better than yours though," Athos contributed with a shrug. Aramis gasped in mock offense and D'Artagnan looked shocked. Athos almost never engaged in their bickering.

"I am wounded," Aramis said, "And I demand satisfaction. Pistols at 10 paces. Porthos is my second."

"After lunch," Porthos grumbled, "You can shoot him them."

They shared a quick meal outside with the rest of the garrison and Porthos was introduced to the men that Athos and D'Artagnan had been riding with while he recuperated. They were friendly enough and to Porthos's surprise, after a few polite inquiries about his health they mostly wanted to know about Athos. A week of riding with the man and he had both awed and terrified them. It was not the first time the taciturn swordsman had wooed a gaggle of young soldiers under his sway, but Porthos never could figure out what the attraction was. Athos did little to welcome such attention and was hardly the sort to seek new friends and yet the men under his command flocked to him like a rooster in a hen house.

The afternoon saw the four soldiers joining Porthos and his original three trainees and the fighter lost himself in overseeing the semi-controlled brawl that sprawled across the practice yard. His injuries became nothing more than afterthoughts, his worries faded as he concentrated on something else, his spirits lifted as he tossed one man after another into the dust of the yard. But the end of the afternoon Porthos was tired, but his restless mind finally seemed to have found some ease.

Dirty, dusty and sweaty the four Musketeers gathered again around the water bucket. Porthos noticed Aramis give him a once over then the marksman shared a friendly grin.

"What?" Porthos questioned.

"You are a mess," Aramis said, sitting beside him on a bench, "But you look happy." Porthos considered the statement. Aramis was right – for the first time in weeks, he felt more than peace or contentment, sparring today had brought him true joy. He smiled and clapped a hand to Aramis's shoulder, acknowledging the moment without needing to say another word. Athos came over with wine for each of them and both accepted gratefully.

"Things went well?" the swordsman never was one for too many words.

Porthos nodded his head, "Yeah, it went well," he replied and they both knew they weren't discussing the recruits. The fond look Athos gave him was enough to break the hardest heart and Porthos basked in one of those rare moments of unfettered warmth that the swordsman gave only to them. "Thank you," Porthos said gruffly, overwhelmed at all he was feeling.

"You won't thank me tomorrow. You'll be sore," Athos deadpanned, then unceremoniously walked away to get more wine. Porthos shook his head and smiled to himself. The man was predictable if nothing else.

"Lieutenant Athos!" the call came from across the yard. Porthos and Aramis stood as Athos joined Captain Demont outside his office. A moment later Athos turned to them and gave a nod. It seemed their presence was required with the Captain. D'Artagnan rolled his eyes and put down the apple he was about to eat. Aramis turned to Porthos and pulled his open shirt up over his shoulder.

"You'd best tidy up a bit," he said slyly.

"How are you not dirty," Porthos asked as he quickly unrolled his sleeves and and shook out his shirt.

"It's a talent," Aramis said with a wink and made his way to join D'Artagnan.

Porthos tucked in his shirt and pulled at the laces. As he straightened himself up he realized that his open shirt had shown his scars - all of them. No one had asked. No one had hesitated to spar with him. No one had questioned his presence in the yard. But more importantly, Porthos himself for those last few hours, had not spared one thought for the mark on his chest. Something shifted in his heart then. He had his life back. Hope, joy, friendship, his place in the Musketeers – all of it had seemed so impossible and now as he stood sweaty and sore in the practice yard he realized he had had it all along.

He looked fondly to where his three comrades stood waiting for him and found his heart full, a feeling so strong it washed over him physically. He swayed on his feet putting a hand to the table to steady himself. Aramis immediately started to walk back to him but Porthos raised a hand, signaling he was fine. And he was. He straightened up and walked quickly to join his friends, a broad smile ready to greet them.

They filed into Captain Demont's office and Aramis shot a questioning look to Porthos. Porthos gave a light shrug. The pair were used to standing in front of their commanding officer with some transgression or another to explain away, but this time, they had in all honesty not been up to any trouble. Captain Demont cleared his throat and looked up from a stack of papers in his hand. His lips were tight and his expression hard. He did not have good news.

"I have had word from _Saint-Pierre_ ," the Captain said, shifting his gaze to Porthos, "I am sorry. There is no sign of Celeste Varade." Porthos stood stock still, not trusting himself to speak or even breathe. He felt a stab of fear twist in his gut, only to be replaced with a burning hot anger. He had not turned his thoughts to her in all this time but he knew instantly he wanted her dead. Beside him Aramis and Athos had also gone rigid. He didn't know exactly what they were thinking, but he knew they were as angry as he.

"How can that be!" D'Artagnan's angry outburst broke the silent tension. The young Gascon could not find the self control the other men did. "It is an island – where could she have gone! When is the next ship? We can take a squadron and — "

"Peace, D'Artagnan. Enough." Athos's voice cut through the young Musketeer's anger and drove him to silence. "I'm sure Captain Demond's men are more than capable." D'Artagnan looked like he was about to continue, but Athos put a hand to his arm and that was enough to still him. "Is there more we can do?" Athos asked the Captain, his tone reasonable.

"The island garrison is on patrol. They will continue to inspect incoming ships. The girl's father has been questioned and released. He swears he has not seen her in five years." There was some grumbling from Aramis at that, but a steely glance from the Captain quieted the marksman. "It is possible she never made landfall at _Saint-Pierre._ She knew she would be subject to arrest by the crown and it is possible that she had her ship leave her on one of the other islands, or even at the Spanish colonies. We cannot know for sure," Captain Demont stood and stepped around his desk to stand in front of Porthos, "We will not stop looking, you have my word as commander here. We will find her and justice will be served."

Porthos kept his jaw clenched but he nodded his acknowledgement to the Captain. The man had been more than generous, and now had given his word to continue to help them. Porthos was grateful, but it did not ease his rage. Still, Captain Demont was not the subject of his anger. "Thank you," he said gruffly.

Demont gave Porthos a clap on the shoulder then returned to his desk. He shuffled through some papers in a gesture reminiscent of Captain Treville before pulling one from the pile. "Treville has sent word that he is ready for your return as scheduled, if you are all fit to travel." He handed the letter to Athos.

"Thanks to your hospitality, we are," Athos replied with a nod.

"In all honesty, I'll be sad to see you leave," Demont said, "You are a credit to Treville and his Musketeers. You are welcome here any time." The men nodded their thanks and Athos stepped forward to offer Demont his hand. Demont took it and offered his compliments to Athos for leading the Varade mission and taking charge of training. He praised Aramis for his talents both as a medic and a marksman and thanked D'Artagnan for his interrogation skills. Despite the disappointment about not finding Celeste Varade, Captain Demont had shown them every possible courtesy and done more for them than was required of his duty. None of the men would soon forget it. As they were leaving his office, Demont called Athos back, handing him a packet of sealed papers and giving him some final orders. Most likely they were communiques for Treville and others in Paris.

D'Artagnan left to make arrangements with the stable boys for their departure three days from now while Porthos and Aramis waited for their Lieutenant in the yard. Aramis was unusually quiet, standing with hands on his hips and looking out toward the sea, no cheery words or jokes to lighten the mood. Porthos felt undone by their conversation with Demont. Learning that Celeste Varade would get away with the tortures she had inflicted on him, the damage she had done to Aramis, the cruelty she had laid on so many people – it was hard to stomach it.

"Treville needs to give us more time," Aramis said coldly, still gazing at the sea, "She has much to answer for."

Porthos knew Aramis too well to take that statement as simple observation. It was an offer. If Porthos wanted to seek justice, Aramis would follow, no matter the orders. Porthos would be lying to himself if he said he was not sorely tempted, but something held him back. As angry and hurt as he was, he couldn't set his course forward toward revenge. He had found hope today, and joy. He had a full life that was his to live and to turn his back on that now seemed wrong.

"She will," Porthos said, standing next to Aramis and following his gaze toward the water, "We will find her. But right now, I just want to go home." Aramis cocked his head and looked at Porthos, asking him again with his gaze. Porthos shrugged and sighed. He couldn't bear putting another thought of her in his mind. It was a black well he had only just climbed out of and he didn't have the strength to face it again. Not now. Aramis gave him a fond smile.

"When you are ready, _mon ami_ ," Aramis promised, a darkness shining in his usually bright eyes.

"You will be the first to know," Porthos confirmed.

They stood quietly together lost in their own thoughts until D'Artagnan came to fetch them to supper.

* * *

D'Artagnan had to admit he was drunk. He hadn't planned to be as it was Porthos who the center of the celebration of their last night in Le Havre, but now as he tried, and failed, to open another bottle of wine he knew he was seriously impaired.

"Give that 'ere," Porthos gestured at him and D'Artagnan brought him the bottle, sitting heavily on the stool at the foot of Porthos's bed. The big man guffawed as the stool toppled and D'Artagnan fell in a heap.

"It's okay," he called out, holding up the bottle, "The wine is safe." Porthos's big hand snatched it from him and another hand reached out and pulled him to a sitting position.

"Perhaps you'd better lie down," Aramis suggested.

"I was lying down," D'Artagnan sighed.

"As you were then," Aramis said with a smile and let go of D'Artagnan's hand. He slumped backwards but caught himself on his elbows. From this position, things seemed to spin less. He could clearly see Porthos on the bed, sitting bare chested in only his braes, the newly opened bottle in one hand and his main gauche in the other. Why he needed that D'Artagnan wasn't sure, but a moment later it was flying across the room to embed itself in the wall behind Athos.

Athos sat on D'Artagnan's bed, his own bottle of wine in his hand. His back was against the wall, legs extended out in front of him, head back and eyes closed. The swordsman didn't even flinch at thwack of the blade landing inches from his head.

"This is why I drink alone," Athos muttered, raising the bottle to his lips. With his left hand he pulled the dagger from the wall and in one fluid motion flung it back toward Porthos. It landed just past the fighter's right ear causing the fighter to burst out laughing.

"That was a great hit," he said, "Should have you out with us next time Aramis and me are doing tricks at the tavern."

"I was aiming for the other side," Athos said dryly. Porthos stopped laughing and D'Artagnan couldn't tell if Athos was telling the truth or sharing a rare jest with them. Porthos reached to pull the dagger from the wall again but Aramis intervened.

"Stop it the both of you," the marksman chided from his spot on the stool that D'Artagnan had unceremoniously vacated, "You are scaring our guests." D'Artagnan looked over his shoulder toward the common room they shared where the two men seated at the table didn't seem disturbed by the events in the bedroom. They were busy with their pots and jars and doing whatever it was one did to prepare for these things.

"They're fine," D'Artagnan said waving a had at Aramis, "They can't even hear us."

"I'm sure they can," Athos replied giving D'Artagnan one of those looks that he was supposed to interpret as telling him to settle down. He chose to ignore it, instead wrestling with Aramis for the last of the brandy that the marksman had brought to their impromptu party.

"If you may please, we are ready to begin," one of the men called out. The Musketeers stilled. It was time.

"Can you do it in here?" Aramis asked, rising from the stool and moving to stand in the doorway. "I think it might be best if my friend was convenient to his bed – just in case he does not fare as well as we might hope." D'Artagnan couldn't see past Aramis but the men must have agreed as Aramis shifted back into the room to allow them through the door.

It took a bit of rearranging, but eventually Porthos was reclining on his back on the bed with Aramis seated on the floor beside him. D'Artagnan sat on the end of the bed by Porthos's fee and Athos had pushed himself up to sit forward on the edge of the other bed, arms leaning on his knees, eyes clear and focused on the scene before him. D'Artagnan dragged a hand over his face. He really did wonder how Athos managed to look so sober after so much alcohol.

"Are you ready?" the older of the two men asked. He was sitting on the stool at Porthos's bedside and had rolled out his equipment along the edge of the bed. The younger man stood behind him, holding a jar and and a pile of rags. A basin of water was at the man's feet, within easy reach of both him and Aramis. Porthos for his part looked uncertain and he licked his lips nervously.

"It will be fine," D'Artagnan said, patting the big man on the leg. "You saw the woman in the market. If she can do it, you can."

"You have endured far worse, _mon ami,_ " Aramis added, "And we are here if it gets too much."

Porthos looked at his friends and gave them a nod, "I'm ready," he said, his voice confident, "Just tell me again it won't hurt."

"You will feel it," the older man said picking up a long, thin needle and a tiny mallet and showing Porthos the tools of his craft, "But your friend is correct that as a soldier you will have encountered far worse. The lashes marking your chest tell me that." That statement sobered them all. While their gathering to this point had been light-hearted, they were here for serious business.

"It's fine," Porthos said, "I'm fine." Aramis reached out and took up Porthos's hand. D'Artagnan thought back to three weeks ago when the three of them had sat round Porthos's bedside and wondered what they would do to reach him. They had come so far and Porthos was so much stronger than he had realized but never did he think then that a man so afraid of needles and suturing would willing allow this happen. D'Artagnan put his hand again on Porthos's leg and gave him a reassuring squeeze. He would not let go until it was done.

The older man took one of the cloths from his apprentice and dipped it in the water basin, then gently passed the damp cloth over Porthos's chest. Porthos said nothing but D'Artagnan felt him tense as the cloth brushed across the brand. It took a lot of courage for Porthos to do this and D'Artagnan felt a surge of pride for his friend.

"Before I start, you should know it will not cover this completely," the old man said, "But it will change what people see."

"That's good," Porthos said, "I want people to see a Musketeer. Not that." The old man took the jar from his assistant and dipped the needle in the ink.

"Wait," Athos's voice was soft but held a note of command. He stood and leaned across Porthos's bed and pulled the main gauche from the wall where it was still stuck. He wiped it on his pants leg then drew a small line across his palm. Blood welled and then he made a fist and held his hand over the jar. As D'Artagnan watched the blood drop from Athos's hand, Aramis stood and took the dagger. He choose a finger in deference to his injured palm and sliced a line across his thumb. Athos let Aramis take his place over the jar and then reached out a hand to D'Artagnan.

D'Artagnan let the swordsmen help him to his feet. He swayed a little from the alcohol in his system but Athos steadied him with a hand to his shoulder. Not trusting his own steadiness, D'Artagnan held out his hand to Athos, looking up to his friend with a plea in his eyes. Athos cupped D'Artagnan's open hand in his own and dragged the knife to make a thin line across his palm. The sting of the blade went a ways toward clearing D'Artagnan's alcoholic daze. D'Artagnan held his fisted hand over the jar and squeezed, his blood dropping to mingle with that of Athos and Aramis. He caught Porthos's gaze and looked at him fiercely, fondly, and defiantly. He thought of Athos's words from that terrible night. Porthos was his, was theirs – just as he himself belonged to each of them. As his blood fell into the pot of ink, mixing with that of his friends he knew this to be an oath. An oath of protection and a bond of brotherhood with these Musketeers.

* * *

"Let me see it," Aramis said again, pulling at the laces of Porthos's shirt.

"Get off," Porthos slapped at him, "You've seen it already."

"You may as well let him," D'Artagnan said, bringing up Porthos and Aramis's horses, "He's going to be impossible if you don't."

"He's right," Aramis said with a cocky grin, "I'm going to be impossible." Porthos let out a harrumph and rolled his eyes, but Aramis was unrelenting, giving Porthos his most plaintive glance.

"Fine," Porthos said, tugging at the laces of his shirt and pulling open his doublet and shirt, "But this is the last time." Aramis ignored him and pushed open Porthos's shirt.

Emblazoned on Porthos's chest in white ink was a fleur-de-lis pierced by three crossed swords, one for each of them. The tattoo covered the brand and incorporated the scars from the two slashes Porthos had cut into his own skin. The old man had shown a steady hand and an artful eye as he did the work. The idea of the tattoo had come from D'Artagnan, the suggestion of the fleur-de-lis had come from Athos but it was Porthos who had asked the artist to incorporate the three swords. It was a bold and beautiful mark befitting the warrior that Porthos was.

The mark covered the brand completely, but as the ink faded over time the brand would be more noticable if someone really took a good look. It gave Porthos a measure of security as most people would not look past the tattoo unless they knew to and outside of the four of them no one in Paris would have cause. Aramis laid a hand gently over the brand thinking of it as a sign of their protection, sealed by the blood they had mixed with the ink, placed over the heart of his dearest brother.

"All for one," Aramis said quietly to Porthos.

"Yeah," Porthos said, giving Aramis a warm smile.

"I have a salve for that," Aramis said, removing his hand and shifting to sort through his saddle bags. "Will keep it from itching as it heals."

"Probably make me smell like a roast," Porthos grumbled, checking his tack.

"It's peppermint," Aramis said defensively, "Here," he offered the small pot to Porthos, "Just put that on a few times a day." Porthos took the small jar and popped off the lid. He took a sniff and made an approving face then dabbed a finger into the salve and softly smoothed some over the tattoo before putting away the pot and relacing his shirt.

D'Artagnan brought up the other two horses and the three men stood together waiting for Athos. He was at the gate in conversation with a well-dressed man who had come to the garrison looking for him. They had been talking for a while and Aramis had kept one eye toward his Lieutenant in case the visit represented some kind of trouble but nothing had seemed amiss.

Athos accepted a packet of papers from the man and then passed him a small pouch, most likely coins. Aramis wondered what Athos was up to, but didn't have much time to speculate as Athos concluded his business with a handshake and crossed the yard back toward where the three of them were waiting. Aramis noticed the curious looks on D'Artagnan's and Porthos's faces and knew that they too did not know what Athos was about. Not that the swordsman would be particularly forthcoming about his affairs with any of them anyway.

"This is for you," Athos said, standing before the big fighter and handing him the packet of papers. Porthos looked at the bundle and then raised a brow to Athos asking what they were.

"I bought the brand," Athos said simply.

"You did what?" Aramis was confused.

"The brand, that mark, I bought it," Athos explained. Aramis looked at Porthos and D'Artagnan and they looked equally confused. Aramis tilted his head and looked expectantly at Athos asking for more information. Athos sighed and pulled his hat from his head, ran a hand through his hair and then resettled the hat. The three men waited.

"The mark, the upside down 'Y', was owned by the Varade estate," Athos was speaking deliberately, clearly not wanting to have to go through this a second time, "Anything bearing that mark – the wine barrels we confiscated, the livestock . . . _anything,_ " Athos said deliberately, "was property of that estate. When the estate became forfeit to the crown, the goods confiscated, the mark also transferred. I contacted the magistrate and I purchased it." Aramis felt his jaw drop as the pieces started to click into place. If anyone saw the mark and questioned Porthos they could not claim him as a runaway slave. He had an owner.

"Well I do not solely own it," Athos clarified, "It is owned by the estate of the Comte de la Fere. And his heirs."

"His heirs?" D'Artagnan said breathlessly.

"The three of you," Athos said, "That's what is in those papers. They've been filed with the magistrate here and will be registered in Paris upon our return."

Aramis felt a lump rise in his throat even as Porthos reached out and pulled Athos close, giving the swordsman a hearty thump on the back. Athos put an arm around the fighter's neck and pressed a kiss to the side of his head. He pulled back and readjusted his hat, pulling it low over his eyes.

"Ready?" Athos said but he didn't wait for an answer as he swung up into his saddle. Aramis, Porthos and D'Artagnan exchanged a look. They were going to have to talk about this but it seemed that Athos had just officially made them all a family. D'Artagnan laughed and gave Porthos a clap on the back, then the three men mounted up.

Aramis adjusted his hat and took up his reins, following his brothers out of the gate. This experience had changed them all. New scars, new marks, new signs of the pain they had endured and the brotherhood they shared. Aramis smiled. He would follow these men anywhere, but right now, he was happy to be following them home to Paris.

-FIN-

* * *

 _And here we are at the end . . . or is it? Let me know if you are interested in a sequel as I do have a few ideas running around in my head._

 _I have said it throughout but I'll say it one more time, thank you to this wonderful warm friendly fandom for welcoming my first terrible story so long ago and for being so supportive as I worked my way through my first long fic - in fact, it is the longest thing I've ever written and I am honored you choose to read it all the way to this part._


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